Miss Baltimore

By James Hilliard

In 1919, seventeen-year-old Cora Molly Estelle Marces was astonishingly beautiful, with an elusive personality and brushed sensuality. Robed in thick, dark hair and the ever-shrinking dresses of the time, simmered and sizzled, she engaged everyone around her as her dazzling personality successfully veiled the tumultuous family life she experienced on Broomes Island, Maryland.

The world was about to open up to her as a young adult in a new age. How could she handle the changing society she was living in? How would she process all the torment she had experienced with her family? Following the death of her father, Molly left for Baltimore and won the title of Miss Baltimore in the early 1920s. Shortly thereafter, Marc Tomasy, a tall, sculpted man, captured her heart. When they married, the world was theirs for the taking.

When the police later informed Molly that Marc had been arrested after being caught operating an appliance theft ring, Molly lost everything. She had no money and had to care for their three young sons during the Great Depression. Emotional storms terrorized her throughout her life, and after making some tragic choices and one shocking, unconscionable act, she became anything other than Miss Baltimore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781440110139

James Hilliard

Author of Miss Baltimore and the screenplay Selling the Vatican, James Hilliard has a master's degree in English from Baylor University and is an accomplished business strategist. He is a student of Catholic history.

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Contents

1912

1922

1932

1942

1952

1962

1972

MISS BALTIMORE

I am Jimmy, and I am telling you my Mother’s story because I want you to know her as I do. You are looking at a scrapbook where I have placed before you episodes of her life just as she told them to me, or just as I lived them after I was born. I have also collected these pieces from those around her, those who shared her life and those who watched her from far away. The words here are her words and my words, her dreams and my dreams. Her thoughts converge with mine now; her memories meet my own. I believe that pictures often flow from a lifetime of memories, capturing the glimmer of hope in our hearts and laying fortune before us, page by page, in a transient album of time. Here, Mother’s story unfolds as if a photographer snapped episodes of her life, developed them, and tucked them away, until they could be displayed. There are no excuses for the wearing edges and dimming glow of these old photographs. We can only flip through the pages and examine the snapshots of memories as they are presented to us, just as we look through old photo albums, and see what we want to see, and believe what we want to believe. There is no judgment, no good, no bad. This collection is as clear as time and destiny will allow it to be; and it shines with truth, although dimly now. While the pieces may be somewhat scattered here, even out of sequence at times, they are there for us to inspect, to peruse, to breathe in, to appreciate and to enjoy. Perhaps by looking at each page closely, studiously, we can follow Mother’s fragile and powerful heart. Perhaps we can follow our own as well, just by searching here. Mother always wanted a beautiful heart and perhaps even deserved one. She chased the shadows of life for a hundred years, just as she long ago chased the pensive, sleeping, darting crabs along the shores of Broomes Island.

1912

Chasing The Armistice

ONE 1912: Chasing the Armistice

I.

The spring of 1912 brought astonishing color to Broomes Island. It was the most vibrant and vivid color in Maryland countryside in a decade. After a full day playing in and out of the sun, on and off the shore, Cora Molly Estelle ran across the meadow, toward the exploding rainbow of the sunset, her doll in one hand and newly picked flowers in the other. As she ran, her mind raced around the conflict between her day of play and obligations at home. Although only ten years old, she was, as her older brother often said, thinking like a thirty year old and diluting all of the fun. As the light of the day faded, she chased the sunset home. She ran and ran … losing the light as she moved closer to the farmhouse. She jumped over puddles and clumps of flowers and walls of weeds—still gripping her doll and striving not to lose even the tiniest of the flowers in her hand. As the darkness crept over the twilight, she ran faster and harder than before. She pretended that someone was chasing her, and almost believed someone was, looking back, but never stopping, as she made progress along the stream and up into the north meadow. The air hit her face with stings, but cooling and welcoming stings, as she proceeded over a makeshift bridge and into the last trek before her. She was almost in a frenzy now—as if she believed she were running from something. She continued to increase her pace. Up the hill, down the hill, beside and around the ditch, nearly tripping on its sagging walls, she closed her eyes for a moment and imagined, as children sometimes do, that she was lifted above the ground. She was floating. Suddenly, as she opened her eyes, she realized that she neared the barbed wire fence which protected her parents’ home from the pasture land. She tried to stop, but too late. She flew into the fence, and screamed a childhood scream, then hit the knife-like wire head on—bouncing away from it, then back into it, then falling away. Within seconds, she was on the ground, surrounded by her flowers, now scattered, and a broken doll.

My doll! She half-screamed, hardly noticing the blood dripping from the eye which had been pierced by a barb. My doll! The bisque head of her only doll broke into several large pieces when it flew out of her hand and hit the ground. My doll!

Molly felt the warmth of blood on her cheek and found she had difficulty seeing clearly. As she moved, the pain in her eye was intense but bearable. She sat still as she reached for the doll, with remnants of the head still attached to the worn kid body, and hugged her for the last time. Mother’s tears quickly outran the blood and diluted her pain. Whether she was stunned, or just afraid, she continued to sit for a moment. The ground was cold, but at that one moment in the motion of time, the dirt was an inviting mattress and the night a tempting shroud.

Darkness fell over twilight, even more quickly now it seemed, so she gathered the flowers, popped up, took up a slower but steady pace, and left the doll behind. As she ran beside the fence, she mumbled, Doll is dead … Doll is dead … Doll is dead. Within minutes, Molly reached the opening in the fence (a broken gate, left in deterioration for years) and pushed herself toward the house. A bare hint of twilight remained as she entered the yard. She stopped to wipe her eyes with the apron of her dress and saw her family through the yellow light of the windows. As she watched her mother, neatly framed like a picture by the outline of the largest window, Molly sensed that something was wrong with her eye. Her vision was not entirely blurred, but the peripheral line of sight on the right side of the right eye was gone. She composed herself and walked toward the door with her flowers. She never spoke of the incident to her parents. Medical care, in those days, was limited to the rounds of a country doctor, or a visit to the nearest town. In any case, her child’s eye would neither allow her to share the incident, nor grieve about it. Molly was home. She remained quiet that evening. She knew that if anyone had cared to look, they would have seen the beginnings of the scar in her eye. But no one looked. No one asked. And Molly quietly assigned herself to whatever duties she thought were hers.

The next morning was a beautiful and inspiring one. Everything outside of the window was green … and purple … and pink … and yellow … and red. Molly sneaked to the tiny mirror over the dresser to check her right eye in the reflection and noticed a small amber line, just to the bottom of the iris. She also noticed that, while her visual clarity had returned, the peripheral vision in the damaged eye had not. However, the noise of the day distracted her, and she put the injury aside. Clarie, her baby sister, was crying; Betsy, her sister of five, was preparing for a busy day of play; and Joe, the typical boy of eight with the typical boyish behavior and what Mother assessed as an even more typical lack of consideration for anything outside of his own interests, did his best to taunt Molly with his latest invention, the mystery sling shot. Only Phillip, the eldest sibling, who took his sixteen year-old responsibilities with a hint of promise and a dose of tenacity, sat staunchly at the helm of the breakfast table, reading a week or so old edition of the Baltimore Sun daily newspaper.

Joe, Molly commanded, stop!

Oh, Molly, he answered. You need to be up and out. Let’s go! He threatened another shot with his weapon, but Molly jumped forward and landed right in front of him. She pushed him out of the hall doorway, which had no door, and told him to eat breakfast or bother someone else. The events of the previous day were not paramount in her mind; but they were in her thoughts as she mused serenely while Joe turned and walked away. While Molly shared a room with Clarie and Betsy, she took command of one key item in that room—the small mirror just over the dressing table. Fortunately for her, no one else had an interest in using the mirror. Her Mother claimed mirrors were a curse from God; but Molly, even as a tiny child, made it clear, curse or no curse, that she wanted to keep the mirror just where it was. Betsy and Clarie were too young to care about looking in mirrors, and the boys had no interest in the object at all. So the mirror was Mother’s. After Joe left, she glanced into the mirror again and squinted sharply to further inspect the damage to her eye. The small yellow line in the right eye appeared a little larger than before—outlining the pierce of the barb. She examined it, winked at it, then moved her gaze to her face, hair, and other places of vanity, as her Mother often identified them. Molly observed her features not so much in admiration of them, but with the critical view of a sculptor or an artist … or, at least in her imagination, a great lady. Her Father’s voice shattered her trance.

These lazy children, he said to her Mother, Hattie, they don’t help with anything. Every chore is left for me. They can eat crabs–but they can’t spend much time catching ‘em.

They help catch crabs, Hattie interjected. They do, Mr. Marces. Molly’s Mother, dressed for hard work and bubbling with the disappointments of her own life, rarely talked happily with her husband. Theirs was a formal relationship, not unlike many in those days, layered with obligation, trepidation, and fear.

Yes, they help. They dump wheelbarrows of crabs and play with them. It’s all a game to them, isn’t it? Isn’t it? He was louder now. Isn’t it?

There they are again, Molly said to herself. Just like Phil says: They evoke levels of dislike in words of disgust. She was not really sure that she understood the exact meaning of Phil’s words; but she knew clearly, without doubt, that her parents’ arguments more angered than saddened her. It was the disgust in her Father’s voice that tormented her most of all.

Mr. Marces continued, There’s cows to milk. Breakfast … food … isn’t easy. Molly’s Mother, Hattie, had grown insensitive to his words and had also learned not to respond, especially when the children were listening (and they were nearly always listening). Phil looked up from his paper.

I’ll take care of the cow, Phil said. The news is old anyway. It was true; most general news traveled slowly then. In coastal cities dependent upon the sea for economic survival, only the shipping news moved quickly, expedited through a variety of means such as hand bills, local newspapers, town or county meetings, and, of course, local gossip.

As Phil left the room, Molly turned her gaze once again to the mirror. She played with her hairbrush, fluttered her eyes, glanced side to side, moved her head around, delivered an askance here and there, then returned a dead stare into a hazy reflection in an even hazier mirror. If her parents continued their conversation, Mother did not know it. She reached into the dresser drawer and uncovered, in a hiding place, a picture post card. The picture depicted a woman modeling glorious clothes, a woman with rich hair, an enticing smile, and tidy allure. Molly’s friend, Annie, brought the card from a trip upstate to Baltimore City. Louder noise from the kitchen, the sounds of arguing, broke Molly’s trance again; and she shoved the picture back into the drawer.

Get out of my way, Mr. Marces demanded as he pushed Hattie aside.

Have you been drinking already? I can smell the liquor on your breath, Mr. Marces. Hattie had little tolerance for the alcohol, as she called it, and even less tolerance for her husband when he was drinking.

I have to drink to live with you. He took his hat and walked out of the door.

Get out. Stay out! Hattie’s voice reflected the lack of feeling she had for him. Molly watched, in the protection of the mirror, as her Mother resumed her routine. The baby cried; Betsy arranged colorful bows in her hair; Joe peeked through the window from his make-believe fortress just outside; Molly brushed her hair, now without looking in the mirror.

I don’t care if he ever comes home, Molly whispered to herself. I don’t care if he ever comes back. It was then that she realized that she missed her doll, which would have been on top of that dresser, leaning against the mirror.

Feed Clarie! Hattie startled Molly with the order, but she knew what to do. She spent the balance of the morning, almost in a trance, as she went about the daily routine of helping with the younger children. She continued to work until around noon, then helped Hattie with the lunch. Milk, eggs, and seafood, especially oysters and crabs, were staples for most of the inhabitants of Broomes Island. The foods were cheap, plentiful, nutritious, and filling. Molly had long since learned to hate the taste and smell of those foods. She detested the monotony of the meals, which actually translated from her growing sense of the atmospheric monotony around her. As she assisted that day with cleaning the crabs for lunch, her mind focused on the picture post card she saw earlier and the glamorous ladies of the city, which seemed so far away. Phil soon returned from his chores; and Hattie sat in a chair by the window, looking into the distance as if waiting for their Father to return. Molly, truthfully, did not care if he ever returned and believed that her Mother felt the same way.

As the children ate their lunch, they were silent. There was a thickness in the air. Even the baby, Clarie, who may have been perceptive enough to understand the torturing voices of silence, capped her mood with a somber melancholy. As Molly looked around the cramped table, she expressed in her thoughts, at least, a maturity of vision and insight which, for some reason, served to help define an assessment of each one of them—including herself. She lunched on her thoughts that day … along with a little bread.

I’m done, and I’m going to Bly’s, Phil announced. Molly was not sure if everyone in the family understood that Phillip was planning to marry Bly Rose Hart, who lived just up the peninsula in somewhat more comfortable conditions. She was sixteen, ready to wed, and feverishly in love with Phil. Little Girl, he said to Clarie, as if she could understand every word. Are you ready to go?

Hattie interrupted. Phil, if you take Clarie to Bly’s, you need to make sure you are back here early.

I know, Mom, he said, I need to be back earlier than later and sooner than that.

The older children chuckled as Phil wiped Clarie’s mouth and blotted the food stains from her dress.

Come on, Little Girl, he said, holding her tightly in his arms. Let’s go see Bly. Bly was set on only two things in her life—marrying Phil and becoming a schoolteacher. She loved children, and visiting with Clarie gave her an opportunity to enjoy the company of both her suitor and the child whom she called the happiest of little girls. Clarie was an overweight child—already known for charming food away from those around her, every time she had a chance. Ironically, throughout her life, after this day, the family would forever call her by Phil’s personal designation, Little Girl.

After lunch, Molly helped clear the dishes, washed up, and silently slipped away. She intended to walk to Annie’s and visit with her for the afternoon, but she did not make it there. In fact, she never saw Annie that day. Instead, Mother walked back to the pasture, just beyond the barbed wire fence, and danced out of tune with the wind. She did not look for her broken doll, nor did she accidentally stumble upon it. She picked flowers and danced to the music of the seaside and the grasses in the meadow. She continued on, with the Patuxent River (a breathtaking and expansive tributary of Chesapeake Bay) directly in her view, and thought about the beauty of the day and her routine … routine … routine.

II.

Five years pass quickly. They stream along life’s riverside and flow, while we are watching, into the depth and darkness of the sea. Phillip, now married to Bly for four years, had moved to Baltimore, where work, housing, and entertainment were both inviting and plentiful. Phil avoided draft into the military service, as a result of the late entry of the United States into World War I, the relative brevity of U.S. involvement in the conflict, and the fortunes of the Selective Service lottery.