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Vicky Banning |
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by |
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Allen McGill |
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Chapter I
Vicky Banning, at seventy-three, was as old as the twentieth century. She was sprightly, independent and, at the moment, bored to a tizzy. After a frenetic year of flitting about the jazz clubs of New Orleans, topped by the near-sleepless week of Mardi Gras—when she’d nearly been arrested for impersonating a policeman in “undercover drag”—she’d decided to “cool it” for a while.
She’d moved into Seniors’ Sanctuary, a posh retirement home in eastern Pennsylvania housing scores of others, whom she referred to as the “Methuselah Mob,” or the “geriatric gang,” as it suited her. The problem was that her housemates didn’t suit her at all. It seemed that whenever they spoke, it was only to whine about their aches and pains, complain about the Sanctuary (which was excellent), or moan about the distance of their families.
Vicky kept her aches and pains to herself, and most of her family lived in California, which suited her quite well. They took care of each other and she took care of herself, which was the way she wanted it. The birthday and Christmas cards they sent were company enough; contact without responsibility.
Vicky had been born in 1900. Though she thought about death occasionally, and was not looking forward to it certainly, she wasn’t afraid of it either. It would be an adventure, she felt, not the long, restful sleep the mortuary ads insisted it was. Hell, she’d had so much rest during one period of her life that she’d been ready to climb walls!
Heaven, if there really was such a place, was where she was headed; she was sure about that. Her God wasn’t petty and certainly wouldn’t condemn her for the few peccadilloes she’d committed as a young woman. So, her future set, she felt free to pass her latter years however she pleased.
Seated on a straight-backed chair in the shade of the veranda, Vicky glanced to the right, at her new “roomies.” Rocking gently on their scoop-bottomed chairs, they reminded her of antique toys: faded, worn, springs running down, preparing to stop. As some tilted forward, others tilted back, each in a dull cadence; in constant motion, going nowhere, marking time.
God! thought Vicky. If I don’t find something to do soon, I’ll become as dotty as they are! Leaning forward, she arose gracefully from her chair, flounced her flowery dress and crossed to the railing. Shunning the banister, she skipped down the steps and, with a smile to her housemates, sauntered along the path to the street.
Maybe I’ll go get drunk, she thought. Or pick up a man on the street. She giggled to herself, knowing she was being silly. She’d never liked the taste of liquor and strangers didn’t interest her—of course it depended on how “strange” they were, and in what way.
Spring breezes swept her along the path until she reached the sidewalk, then turning right; she scurried off behind the tall hedges, out of view of the “rockers.” She waited patiently until a car came by, and then flagged it down.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the driver, a young man with the hazy stubble of a new beard, called across the passenger seat to her. He was driving a ramshackle heap of indeterminate origin and looked more at home in it than he would in any room.
“You can give me a lift to Main Street,” she answered with her most grandmotherly smile.
“You’re hitching?” the man asked with a surprised chuckle.
“I’m hitching,” replied Vicky and, opening the door, slid inside.
“You wouldn’t expect an old lady to walk all the way to the shops, would you?”
“Oh, er, of course not, ma’am,” the young man answered, driving off. “At your service. What shops are you headed for?”
Vicky thought for a moment, then grinned. “Well, I’m not really going to a shop,” she said. “Actually, I’m looking for a dealer.”
“What kind of dealer?”
“Grass.”
“You mean like grass seed?”
“No, like in pot, marijuana. You know.”
The car screeched to a halt.
“Lady, are you kidding? You’re a doper?”
Vicky sat primly facing forward, her hands resting lightly on her large purse.
“Oh, I enjoy toking on a joint now and then,” she said. “But now I just want to whip up a batch of cookies for the folks I live with. Do you know where I can score?” She turned to face him and nearly erupted with laughter at his gaping mouth.
“Well?”
The young man’s head jerked spastically. “No!” he blurted. “I’m not into that sort of thing. And you shouldn’t be either. Lady, don’t you know that stuff can be dangerous?”
“Sonny,” said Vicky, “at seventy-three years of age, I should start worrying now?”
“But you could get arrested.”
“Don’t be silly. Who’d believe a little old lady like me was a pot-head? You sure you don’t know of a dealer?”
“No, lady! I swear!”
Vicky looked disappointed. “Oh, well, let’s get going then. I’ll just have to cruise around on foot until I connect.”
They drove in silence to Main Street, the young fellow glancing sideways at Vicky from time to time. When they arrived, Vicky stepped out, closed the door and leaned into the open window. “It’s a good thing you answered me the way you did, Sonny,” she said with all seriousness.
“Sonny” looked confused, asked “Why?”
Vicky grinned slyly. “Because I’m with the vice squad, narcotics division, that’s why. This old-lady getup is just a disguise. Now, take off and keep your nose clean.”
Tires squealed as the car streaked across Main Street, nearly ramming the rear of a red Volkswagen that had the right of way.
That’ll teach him to pick up hitchhikers, she thought, suppressing a giggle. She turned to amble along the street, glancing into the shop windows and stopping now and again to admire a dress or a piece of jewelry, when an idea came to her. Unsnapping her bag, she removed the bills from her change purse and transferred them to her bra.
The gift shop had few customers, so Vicky browsed freely, rejecting the offer of assistance by the salesgirl. She perused the greeting cards, priced the glassware, then asked to see the Hummel figurines in the glass showcase behind the counter.
She decided on the figure of a little girl holding an umbrella, but waited until the salesgirl left to assist two women who had entered before slipping it into her purse. She started toward the door.
“Just a minute, Madam,” she heard the salesgirl call. “I saw what you did!” she shouted loudly. A man, probably her husband, rushed from the back of the store.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“This lady just stole a Hummel,” the girl said, her voice shaky.
The man glared down at Vicky and extended his hand. “Let’s have it,” he ordered.
Vicky fumbled with her bag, letting her lips quiver, tears fill her eyes. On cue, her thin shoulders trembled pathetically. “I’m sorry,” she said, with as tremulous a voice as she could muster, and handed him the figurine.
“We should call the police,” the man said gruffly. “You’re a thief!”
The “should” assured Vicky that she was safe, but since her act was going so well she decided to carry it through. She gasped, as if shocked to the core by his unkind words, her free hand fluttering to her heart. “Oh, please,” she cried. “Don’t call the police. My family would have me put away. I only took it for my granddaughter. She’s in the hospital—a rare blood disease. And I don’t have enough money to send her a gift. This month’s welfare check is gone already. Look”—she reached into her bag and removed her change purse, shaking the coins inside—“here. Take all the money I have. Just please don’t call the police.” Her speech over, she let the tears cascade down her frail cheeks, before hiding her face in her trembling hands. That ought to clinch it, she thought.
“Oh, the poor dear,” she heard a woman say. It was one of the customers. Vicky had been concentrating so hard on the front row audience, she’d forgotten about the standees. “Mr. Johnson,” the voice continued, “may I see you for a moment?”
“You wait here,” Mr. Johnson ordered, and walked away with the customer.
After a few minutes, Vicky was wishing he’d hurry back. Sobbing was tiring. But she managed to keep it up until he returned.
“You’re very lucky,” he said. “These kind ladies have offered to pay for the figurine you…borrowed.”
Vicky was startled; she hadn’t expected that. She looked up at the middle-aged women standing at a distance, saw their charitable smiles, the sympathetic tilt of their blue-coiffed heads. Probably think this will get them into heaven, she thought. They should be thanking me! “God bless you all,” she gushed tearfully. “My granddaughter will be so happy.”
Mr. Johnson boxed the Hummel, slipped it into a bag and handed it to her. She clasped it to her heart, projecting overwhelming emotion. “Thank you. Thank you all. I know I can get this to her in time. I’ll mail it…as soon as I can save the money for postage.”
* * *
Vicky scanned the movie posters outside the theater, the package pressed tightly to her chest. Holding it with one hand, she reached inside the front of her dress to remove the half-dozen marking pens that she’d dropped inside when no one was looking. They’d started shaking loose during her sobbing jag and she’d had to hold onto them the whole rest of the time. She dropped them into her bag, removed the change purse and “postage money,” added the Hummel and snapped it shut.
Now, what next? she wondered. Standing in the shade of the marquee, she scanned the row of shops across Main Street, as the early-show crowd began streaming from the theater. She’d thought of stopping in for an hour or so, but she’d noticed that the film was rated R and therefore didn’t interest her. Bare behinds were cute, but vulgar language did not a movie make. Television might be inane, but it was usually much more prudent.
As the swarm thinned out, Vicky spied a torn ticket stub on the ground and stopped to pick it up, a smile creeping along her lips. She crossed the street, entered Ye Olde Tea Shoppe and settled herself at a gingham-covered table near the window.
When the gray-haired waitress with a frilly apron took her order with such a delighted smile, Vicky began to have doubts about the place. Anyone who could get that turned on by a cup of tea and a club sandwich was not at all well.
The sandwich was good, though, loaded with the mayonnaise and bacon that would give the Sanctuary dieticians a stroke by just hearing about them. After a second cup of tea, rested, she braced herself and motioned for the check.
“Smiley” delivered it and stood, waiting.
“Oh, my goodness!” Vicky cried, digging into her purse. “My money. It’s gone!” She looked up in time to see the lips close over suspiciously white teeth and an eyebrow arch upwards.
“Beg pardon?” the waitress asked with a decidedly icy tone.
“My change purse,” Vicky explained in a quivering voice. “It’s gone. I must have lost it.”
Smiley slapped her book of checks on the table. “Hey, Ginny,” she called, turning. “We got another stiff here.”
A cold, hard lump expanded within Vicky’s chest. Her hands began to tremble. Apparently Ye Olde Tea Shoppe was not going to be Ye Olde Pushover.
Ginny, a large woman older than the waitress, thundered toward the table. Her face was one large frown. “What’s going on here?” she demanded in a bass voice that Ezio Pinza would have coveted.
“This sweet little old lady has lost all her money,” Smiley said with full sarcasm. “Isn’t it funny how often that happens nowadays?”
“Hilarious,” Ginny growled. She moved to hover over Vicky like a drill sergeant on a raw recruit. “Open your bag and empty it on the table.”
Vicky hesitated, began to cower under the mass of flesh—only part of it an act. The bills were secure in her bra, she knew, but her purse was private. No one had the right to pry into it. The indignity, the—
“I said open it,” Ginny repeated with more force. “Now, or I’ll call the cops. You old bats think you can get away with anything because of your age, don’t you? Well, you’re not much older than I am, honey, and I work too damned hard for my living to support a bunch of freeloaders. Now open that bag or the cops will!”
Vicky’s mind was in turmoil. This amazon obviously had no respect for age, or womanhood. She really would call the police who would search her and find her money. She needed time to think. “I’ve always paid my own way” she said weakly, but with a hint of pride in her bearing, as she upended her purse. “I tell you I must have lost the money. Or, it was stolen when I dozed off at the movies.”
She watched as Ginny’s thick fingers sifted through the items on the table, saw her scoop up the change, then examine the ticket stub.
“She probably has it hidden on her,” Ginny said to Smiley, then leaned her halfback shoulders over the table, speaking directly into Vicky’s face: “Now get it up, or I call the cops!”
“Yes,” Vicky said quickly. “Please, call the police. Maybe they can get my money back for me.”
Ginny’s face unfolded with surprise, startling Vicky with its expansion. “You want me to call them?” she asked.
“Yes, please” said Vicky, her confidence growing. “It was all the money I had.” A tear flickered in each eye. “I don’t know how I’ll live until my disability check arrives.”
“Disability?”
Gotcha!
Ginny was obviously taken off guard, judging by her blank, wide-eyed expression.
Vicky turned shyly away. “Tumor,” she said softly and watched the women flinch. “My chest,” she added, tapping her change purse. “Inoperable. The doctors found it about a year ago and made the mill lay me off. But they’re very good to me, bless them. They send me almost a hundred dollars a month.”
Ginny stared at her for a moment, then straightened up, her face now a tangle of confusion.
“Aren’t you going to call the police?” Vicky asked timidly.
Ginny’s face went blank again. She shook her head slowly.
“Oh, I don’t think…”
“Oh, please,” Vicky implored, humbling herself and lowering her eyes. “I’d call them myself, but you’ve taken every penny I had in the world.”
* * *
“Are you sure you’re not related to the Robert Wood who lived in Cleveland?” Vicky asked. The young officer stopped the car near the hedges, as she’d asked him to, out of sight of the “rockers.” He’d seemed surprised and suspicious when she told him where she lived, until she hinted that she was the live-in washerwoman.
“I’m sure, ma’am,” the dark-eyes man answered with a smile.
“Well, you certainly resemble him,” she said. “Handsome devil he was…but so naughty.” She let a titter escape.
The officer laughed embarrassedly, a faint blush coloring his face. “Ma’am,” he said, “are you sure you can’t remember what your change purse looked like? Or how much was in it?”
Vicky’s head drooped sadly. “Age dims the memory,” she answered with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, but I simply can’t recall. Anyway, there can’t have been many lost in the theater today, so any one that’s found is bound to be mine. I hope one is found,” she added after a thoughtful moment, “so I can pay that…charming woman at the tea shop.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” the officer said. “They cut the bill in half and I took care of it for you.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Vicky exclaimed. “Now I feel terrible.” I’d much rather have stiffed Big Bertha for the whole tab. “But, thank you. You are so kind.” She patted his hand. Men were such pussycats. “I know the dear Lord will repay you for your goodness.”
She slid from the car and turned back to close the door, saying, “Officer, someone warned me to avoid the place where those awful…marijuana dealers hang out. But, since I don’t know where that is, how can I avoid it?”
* * *
MACKY’S CAFÉ—23 & Main, she wrote in her little pad.
ASK FOR GENE!
Strolling along the path toward the large, white house, Vicky felt the exhilaration of the day’s activities press down on her. It was a good feeling, one of accomplishment, of having had a full, exciting day. And now that she was “home,” she could relax, rest and replenish her energy.
Of course, there was that lovely cameo in the jewelry store window—
VICKY BANNING
Chapter II
“Make yourself comfortable, ma’am,” the driver had said, a week or so earlier. He held the taxi door open for her to enter. “I’ll get your bags from the train and we’ll be off in no time.”
Vicky smiled a “thank you” at him and leaned back against the seat, letting its softness ease the aches that had been nagging at her since she’d boarded the first train, in San Francisco.
The train had been a mistake, she realized, as much as she enjoyed traveling on them. It couldn’t compare to sailing of course, nothing could, but it certainly beat flying. At least you could see something through the windows, and it was far more comfortable. If only it hadn’t left her with so much time to think.
In San Francisco, she’d been certain that what she was doing was right, but after Keith and her other boys had ganged up on her at the railway station, she’d begun to have doubts, which had grown during the three days of idle hours. She’d started wondering if, perhaps, they weren’t right. “Don’t you think it’s time you slowed down, Mom?” Keith had asked. “You’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore, you know. Why don’t . . .”
“I’m not an old hen yet, either,” she’d answered, chucking him under the chin. “I’m still way ahead of you, sweetheart.”
“But . . .”
“No buts,” Vicky said, growing impatient. “You know perfectly well why I life my life the way I do, and exactly why I have no intention of changing. Now, give me a kiss and I’ll be off. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I’m settled.”
But, maybe she was getting too old. Maybe the wear . . . No! She refused to let age change her. Her boys, of all people, should understand that. Why couldn’t she convince them that lives were at stake?
“All set, ma’am?” the driver asked, settling himself behind the wheel.
Vicky chuckled. “Ready when you are, C.B.”
“It’s kind of a long drive,” he said, pulling out of the parking area, “so if you want to make a rest stop along the way just let me know.”
“Thank you,” said Vicky. “I just may do that.”
“You have family in these parts?”
“No, I’m on my own,” Vicky said, refraining from adding again. I just left my family on the west coast.”
“You come all that way? You must be worn out. Doze off if you want to and I’ll try to keep off the bumpy roads.” Vicky laughed to herself. Big-city drivers could certainly learn something about manners from their “hick-town” cousins. She turned to gaze out the window at the passing greenery. It was the most soothing color to the eyes, she’d once read, and she let the trees and rolling hills lull her into complacency. She’d made her decision, despite the protests of her boys, and she was going to stick to it. After all, it was just another year; just fifty weeks; just three-hundred-fifty-one days; just . . .
* * *
Seniors’ Sanctuary: the name made Vicky think of a home for old birds in nuns’ habits, but she had to admit that it seemed lovely when she finally saw it. It was larger than she’d expected, rising past the second story balcony to the eaves, gleaming in the early afternoon sun like the Lincoln Memorial, convinced her that she had chosen well. The brochure hadn’t exaggerated, for a change as so many of them did. Of course she hadn’t seen the inside yet.
Catering to ladies and gentlemen accustomed to gracious living, the flyer had read. A place for people with plenty of money and no place to go, Vicky interpreted.
The taxi stopped just beyond the opening in the wall of hedges, as Vicky had requested, and she stepped from it to the sidewalk, moving on foot to the entrance. Ah declayah, she thought, on seeing the home. Ah shoulda worn mah hoop-skirt. She was wearing a burgundy pants-suit and a white blouse, her silvery hair newly styled a la the ice skater gold medalist, Dorothy Hamill. She was about to ask the driver where the slave quarters were, but since he was Black she decided she’d better not—especially while he was carrying her bags.
Vicky felt the eyes of the rocking chair brigade on her as she strolled up the slow incline, her hand resting on the driver’s arm. She ignored the railing that ran along the path as being for the feeble-of-foot, and watched the row of eyes, like miniature portholes, rising and falling in the shade of the veranda.
They were appraising her, she knew, and she gave them all the time they needed. Her turn would come later. She smiled sweetly at them as she ascended the steps, then swirled around to survey the landscape. The lawn swept downward away from her like a gentle wave, hesitantly green with the sprouts of new spring grass, to the surrounding barrier of shrubbery. Just inside, and evenly spaced to block the winter winds, were spreading maples, their branches reaching out to touch each other, to mingle and mesh; tall children holding hands in a circle. From atop the veranda, Vicky could see beyond the street they’d driven along, into what she assumed was a park. A lake shone from within it, glittering like gold through the trees. Everything was so fresh, so young. She’d decided years ago to change her surroundings every spring, and was happy she had. It was as if she arrived at each new home in time to watch it blossom into new life. A new year, a new home, a new beginning.
“Isn’t it lovely,” she announced to no one in particular, then turned to see if anyone would respond. King Tut would have been more expressive. The rocking had stopped on a forward swing, and the row of bespectacled, gray faces peered at her, men and women, aligned and alike, facing mirrors reflecting an image over and over into infinity. Then, as if planned, the faces receded and the rocking resumed, synchronized. Except for one little old lady who, finding she’d gaped too long, was peddling furiously, trying to catch up.
The rebel of the clan, no doubt, Vicky thought, and turned toward the entrance.
“Welcome, Mrs. Banning,” a smiling woman in her late thirties called, as she swung the wide door open. Vicky liked her immediately. Her smile showed genuine pleasure at the meeting and her deep blue eyes looked at her, instead of flitting past as if in search of something more interesting to light upon. She towered over Vicky’s five-feet-nothing frame, and she was fat. Not obese, just unashamedly corpulent. Vicky liked people who were happy with themselves, who lived the way they pleased and ignored the “norm” decreed by others. Constant dieters, especially, irritated her. She could always pick them out, with their cranky dispositions and pathetic, martyred expressions. They were like children deprived of their favorite toy, determined to make everyone else miserable.
The woman sported a wide, red dress, obviously because she liked the color, and was unconcerned that, with the large gold pin on her right breast, she looked like a billowing Russian flag. “You’re early,” she said, admitting Vicky and the driver into a massive foyer dominated by a carpeted stairway sweeping to the floor above. “You should have told us you were taking an earlier flight. I would have met you at the airport.”
Vicky caught the veiled reprimand, and smiled. It was routine in places like these, she knew, meant to put the newcomer on the defensive, to establish right off who laid down the rules, and who was expected to follow them.
“I telephoned two days ago,” she said. Actually, she’d arrived early on purpose. You could learn so much more about a place if you arrived unexpectedly. “I guess whoever took the message is not terribly reliable. But that’s all right,” she quickly added. “I didn’t mind waiting all that time at the airport . . . alone.”
The woman studied her, warily, the situation reversed from the usual. “I’m Doris Manley, Mrs. Banning,” she said finally, dismissing Vicky’s retort. She extended her hand. “And how are we today?” Vicky hesitated as she reached out her hand. Oh, God, she thought, here we go with the “we” again. “Miz Banning,” she said. “And we’re fine, thank you. And how are we?”
“Oh, we’re . . . I mean, I’m . . . .”
There was silence for a moment as the women’s wills grappled above their clasped hands. Then Doris’s eyes glinted knowingly and she smiled. Vicky grinned back. They had an understanding.
“Miz Banning,” Doris said with a nod. “I couldn’t be sure. It seems you forgot to fill in the number of blanks on your application,
“I never forget anything,” Vicky said with a grin.
“Lady?” the driver called. He’d set the bags inside the door, and was waiting for his fare.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vicky exclaimed. She’d gotten so involved with the ground-rules contest that she forgotten all about him. She released Doris’s hand after a fleeting squeeze and turned, delving into her purse. She handed the cabbie a few bills and escorted him through the door to the steps, a hand clutching his elbow. He stood between her and the “rockers.” “Thank you for carrying my bags,” she said softly, then motioned for him to lean down toward her.
The man’s dark, wide brow creased in puzzlement, but he bent to her. “Don’t let them see you pocket the money,” Vicky whispered in his ear. He turned to face her, still stopped, and Vicky winked at him, a broad, theatrical wink. An embarrassed smile crossed his lips, the smile of one who hadn’t caught the punch line of a joke that everyone else was laughing at. Shrugging, he stood and left, shaking his head. He stopped once, halfway along the path, and looked back.
“Bye-bye, dear,” Vicky called to him, waving briskly. “Don’t forget to write.” She watched him scurry beyond the hedges, out of sight.
When she turned, the rockers were frozen in motion, as if a single frame of a film had gotten stuck in a projector, their mouths gaping like a row of golf holes. “Have a lovely day,” she trilled to them, and sauntered into the house.
Doris had taken Vicky on a short tour of the Sanctuary, then showed her to her room. “It has a lovely view of the grounds from the second floor,” she said, unlocking the door, “with the mountains in the distance.”
When she swung the door open, Vicky gasped. The room was a riot of ruffles! Pink ones! Everywhere! It was as if the room had been smothered by a graduation dress. To the left, between two kewpie-doll lamps, sat a costumed doll on a double bed, blending into the frilly cover. She seemed to be waiting for a male doll to transform the entire set into a billion-calorie wedding cake. The dressing table beside it looked like a Carmen Miranda reject: the rug, lace curtains and flowered chair were all in varying shades of cotton candy.
“How do you like it?” Doris asked, eyeing Vicky. “Mrs. Brent tried to make it as little-girl-like as possible. She felt that pink was such a youthful color. Unfortunately, she had to move to a nursing home.”
“Diabetes?” asked Vicky.
“Why, yes,” said Doris, looking curiously at her. “How did you know?”
“Psychic,” Vicky answered. She scanned the room. “It’s so sweet it’s giving my dentures a toothache.”
A chuckle began in Doris’s throat, then erupted into rich, contralto laughter, filling the room with vigorous humor. “I didn’t think this would be your style.”
Vicky couldn’t suppress a grin. “The only person this style would suit is the sugar plum fairy . . . and it would probably be too much for him.”
Doris laughed again. “You can change it any way you like,” she said. “If you need any help, just let me know.”
Vicky turned to look at her. The bright red dress against the pulsing pink made her look like a grotesque Valentine. She asked, “Can you drive a truck?”
Doris looked surprised. “Well, I don’t know. Why?”
“If you can,” Vicky said, “just back one up under my window and I’ll redecorate right now. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.”
Musical laughter again filled the room. “I don’t think we need be that drastic,” Doris said. “If you like, I’ll call a decorator friend of mine who’s worked here before. He’ll come out and discuss ideas with you.”
“Not the one who did this room, I hope,” Vicky said, looking horrified.
“No fear,” said Doris. “Mrs. Brent did all this by herself.”
“Including that . . . masterpiece?” She pointed to a large, framed something over the bed. It was filled with masses of balled-up tissue paper (that color, of course) meant, Vicky assumed, to represent flowers. With each movement in the room, the tissue shivered, rustling as if alive and eager to devour every non-pink object within its reach—but there was nothing left to attract it. Poor thing must be starving, Vicky thought.
“Mrs. Brent made that herself,” Doris told her, chewing her lip.
Vicky glanced sidelong at her. “You’re sure she left for medical reasons?”
Doris’s face turned stern. “Quite sure,” she said.
Good for you, Vicky thought, liking her even more. She was loyal. But the picture would have to go. There was no way she could sleep in a room with that hovering over her bed. She turned to look again at the “creation.” It was a perfect spot for her poster of Mark Spitz in his tiny swimsuit, the seven gold medals splayed across his bare chest. That was her style.
After Doris left, Vicky opened her largest suitcase and removed from within the folds of clothing an old, sepia photograph, its color faded, the frame worn smooth and burnished from years of caresses. She sat on the bed, dusting the photo with the skirt of the bedspread, an involuntary smile softening her lips as she studied, for perhaps the millionth time, the young couple grinning up at her, the couple dressed as clowns. Another year, my darling, she thought, and kissed the face of the young man behind the glass.
* * *
Seated, Vicky rode down in the two-person elevator to the main floor and made her way along the corridors to the main foyer. The halls were wide, heavily carpeted and lined with handrails along the walls. They reminded her of when she and Gerald had sailed in the luxury of the old Queen Mary around the world, the three glorious months they spent together. They’d not only had the run of the ship, but had gotten paid for it to boot!
At the foyer, she turned right into the entrance of the dining room. The home was designed as a hotel rather than a rest home, she realized, an expensive hotel, and the dining room was as posh as any restaurant she’d ever seen. The ceiling was high, the carpeting a lush blue. Dark wood paneling lined the walls between tall, glass-paned doors. Opposite the entrance rose a carved fireplace in which a sedate flame glowed. Everything about the place seemed serene, she noted with a touch of impatience. Well, things would just have to be livened up a bit.
“There you are, Ms. Banning,” Doris called, as she edged her way between two widely spaced tables. She’d changed to a simple black Chanel dress for dinner, which complimented her short, dark hair and deepened the blueness of her eyes. Her skin seemed as fresh as a child’s. “Is there anyone in particular you’d like to meet?” she asked, “or shall I just introduce you around?”
“Not while everyone’s eating,” Vicky said, scanning the array of small tables. “But someone seems to be trying to get your attention.” She motioned to a tall, thin woman across the room who stood beside an empty table by a door. The woman waved in frantic delicacy in their direction.
“That’s Mrs. Carstairs,” Doris said, thoughtfully. “She’s our longest resident. I’m not all that sure . . .”
“I’d like to meet her, then,” Vicky said. Who better to get the scoop on this place from? To find out who was sleeping with whom—she certainly hoped someone was getting a little—and who was the softest touch. In other words, get the dirt.
Doris seemed hesitant, but then agreed, grinning with an elfin-like glint in her eyes—startling in a woman her size. “All right,” she said. Her lilting voice made Vicky suspicious. She could almost hear Doris thinking, This could be interesting, or Let’s see how these two click.
All faces turned to watch Vicky and Doris cross the room, the men tipping their heads in greeting, the women eyeing Vicky’s dress, smiling secretively. Vicky strode before them, boldly, conscious of their stares, a bit less comfortable under their scrutiny indoors than she’d been outside.
“How do you do?” the tall woman said to Vicky, as she approached the table. “I’m Sarah Carstairs. I’d like you to join me at my table.” It sounded more like a decree than an invitation, and the “my” was stressed, as if she were a child saying, It’s my toy, and you can’t have it! Vicky felt she knew a great deal about Mrs. Carstairs already, and braced herself.
“I’m Vicky Banning,” she said, seating herself across from Sarah. Doris waited with them until the waitress took their orders.
“Enjoy your dinners,” she said. “Call me if you need anything.” She glanced from one to the other. “Either of you.”
“I’m the longest resident here,” Sarah said with pride, after Doris had left. “My husband was Mayor of this town for twenty-five years, before he died.”
“How nice for you,” Vicky said, ambiguity intended. “And what did you do?” She saw Sarah’s face droop with disappointment. Obviously, Vicky had been expected to gush at the privilege of being invited to join such lofty company, and Sarah was disconcerted by her lack of enthusiasm. Vicky studied her dinner companion’s face, trying to decide who she reminded her of, then decided—it was Margaret Hamilton as the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz, but with purple-tinted hair and enough powder on her face to bake bread.
“Do?” Sarah exclaimed indignantly. “Why, I was the Mayor’s wife, of course. A great responsibility!”
Hosting tea parties, Vicky thought. How very creative. She had little regard for women who rested on their husband’s laurels, sharing the rewards, but accomplishing nothing on their own. She turned her attention to the dining room, admiring the soft lighting from the crystal chandeliers.
Sarah was growing fidgety, seemingly uneasy with the lack of attention from a mere newcomer. She spoke quickly, as if rushing to fill a void. “My children are grown now, and I have four darling grandchildren.”
The silence that followed her statement began to rattle her. She fussed with her napkin, glanced around the room as if searching for help. “So,” she finally said, “now you tell me all about yourself.”
I’d sooner run it in The New York Times, Vicky thought. She now understood the women’s secretive smiles as she’d entered. Sarah was probably the chief snoop of the Sanctuary and, therefore, responsible for eliciting all the dope on the newcomer for distribution later. “I’m sixty-eight years old,” Vicky told her (a five-year fib wouldn’t hurt), “love chocolate layer cake, and adore telling stories to little children.”
Sarah smiled curiously at her, then waited . . . and waited.
The impasse was interrupted by the waitress delivering their dinners.
“Doesn’t it look delicious?” Vicky chirped, seeming oblivious to Sarah’s consternation. “I just adore crab cakes.”
“Er, yes,” Sarah said, her smile twisting awkwardly. She set a thin, veined hand on the table between them, and tapped lightly. “Dear,” she said, and paused. “What I meant before was for you to tell me all about yourself: where you come from, if you have children, things like that.”
Vicky glanced up at her with a look of surprised revelation. “Oh! You mean my personal life.”
Sarah failed in her attempt to appear sheepish. “Well, I don’t mean personal personal, dear. I mean like . . . well . . . that dark gentleman who carried your bags this afternoon . . .”
Here it comes, Vicky thought. “Yes?”
“Well, you seem to know him.”
“Keith? Oh, yes.”
Frustration was making Sarah tremble, the purplish curls on her forehead to twitch. “Well, is he a friend of yours?” she asked.
“In a way,” Vicky said, sipping at her Chablis. She waited until Sarah harpooned a cherry tomato and popped it, whole, into her mouth before adding, “He’s my son.”
VICKY BANNING
Chapter III
Sarah’s choking caused blue-smocked waitresses to converge on their table from every point in the room. One pounded on her back, while another tried to force water down her throat, succeeding only in soaking the front of her frilly dress.
“Maybe she got a bone caught,” Vicky suggested, as Doris rushed up to the table.
“From London Broil?” Doris exclaimed.
Vicky shrugged, dismissing the entire matter. She continued with her dinner while Sarah was pummeled and nearly drowned across the table. She’d have suggested that someone use the Heimlich maneuver but, since she’d never heard of anyone choking to death on gall, decided not to.
Sarah was soothed and quieted eventually and, despite Doris’s urging, insisted she didn’t want to go to her room, as Vicky could have predicted. No one leaves a show just when it’s getting to the juicy part. She watched Sarah’s face fade to a healthier color, then continue to wane to a dry, chalky pallor. “You were saying?” Sarah said, coughing delicately into her napkin. “About your . . . son?”
The subtlety of a Mack Truck, thought Vicky, but had to admire her persistence. No wonder our politics are in such a state. “Yes?”
“Your husband must have been, er, dark too, I assume?”
Vicky hesitated. “You mean Keith’s father? Oh, dear me, no. Olaf was a Swede. A count, as a matter of fact.” She wondered if they had counts in Sweden. “He was so fair that you could almost see through him on a sunny day.” She affected a sadly wistful gaze and turned toward the windowed door. The sun was low, the sky streaked with heliotrope, silhouetting the maples like black lace on satin.
Sarah looked comically befuddled when Vicky turned back to her, then enlightenment flashed across her eyes. “Then he’s adopted,” she announced. Her lips pursed in a triumphant smile, greatly pleased with her own cleverness.
“Oh, no,” Vicky said lightly. “He’s our natural son.”
“But that’s impossible,” Sarah said. “You’re white and he’s . . . not!”
Vicky laughed delightedly. “Now I understand what you mean,” she said. “It’s funny, but I hardly notice that any more. It’s only been since Three Mile . . .” She paused for the count of three. “Oh, dear. I shouldn’t have said that.” She appeared flustered, embarrassed to the point of tears.
A pall of confused astonishment suffused the space between the women but, slowly, as if pulled by a leash, Sarah’s nose forged through it, until her head was halfway across the table. “Three Mile Island is just a few miles from here,” she said, her voice hoarse with curiosity. “What about it?”
Vicky looked up at her, lips pressed tightly in what appeared to be reluctance, but actually she was biting the inside of her lips to keep from laughing out loud. “I am sorry,” she said, when she felt she had enough control. “I shouldn’t have said . . .”
“I won’t tell a soul!” Sarah blurted out.
No souls, just people, Vicky thought. “But . . .”
“Please!” Sarah begged. “You can’t say something like that and then just let it drop!”
Vicky waited, her brow creased, as if in deep thought. “You swear you won’t tell anyone?”
“I swear,” Sarah said with intense earnestness.
“Cross your heart?”
“Yes, yes, yes. Cross my heart, for heaven’s sake. Now, what about Three Mile Island?”
Vicky lowered her eyes to stare at her hands. “I have to see you cross your heart,” she murmured apologetically.
Sarah threw up her hands and thumped back into her chair. “All right!” she all but shouted, growing angry. “Watch! See? I’m crossing my heart! See? Hope to die! Now tell me!”
“It’s a government secret,” warned Vicky. “You could be putting yourself in great danger if you even so much as hinted . . . ”
“May I lose my tongue if I tell anyone,” Sarah blurted in a shrill, frantic voice. She seemed about to throw a tantrum, to pound her balled fists on the table.
“Well,” Vicky said in a drawn out, hushed, secret agent voice, “in that case.” She propped both elbows on the table, a hand blocking her mouth from view of the other diners. “Remember when the . . . ‘incident’ happened at Three Mile Island a few years ago.”
“Of course I remember,” Sarah snapped. “What about it?”
Vicky glanced to her right side, then to her left, then checked behind her as well before speaking. “Keith, my son, was working there when it happened,” she whispered. She nodded her head and arched an eyebrow upwards, in her best rendition of a wizened old sage.
Sarah was immobile with excitement, seemed ready to crawl across the table to her. “Yes? And?”
“He was on duty when the . . . leak occurred.”
Sarah’s eyes widened farther; she was barely breathing. “Yes, you said that. So what happened?” she gasped.
Vicky leaned closer. “No-thing,” she whispered, separating the syllables for emphasis.
A tense silence followed, and continued until Sarah’s head began to twitch, as if she were unable to grasp what she’d just heard. She’d half risen from her chair, remained suspended above it, staring at Vicky as if she weren’t quite human. “What do you mean nothing?” she shrieked.
People at the nearby tables turned to stare at her, their faces open with shock and annoyed that anyone would display such unacceptable behavior in their elegant dining room. After stiffening with indignation, they returned to their dinners. Trembling, Sarah lowered herself with erratic jerks into her chair, her eyes lowered to her plate.
“Nothing, just then,” Vicky said, continuing to whisper, as if unaware that there had been an interruption. “Not until the following day.” She paused again, folding her hands in her lap. “Are you sure you want to hear all this?” she asked. A convincing show of concern for Sarah’s well-being furrowed her brow.
Sarah didn’t answer. She just glowered up at Vicky from beneath her brows, as if to drill holes through her with her eyes. Her mouth was screwed to a tight, wrinkled spot.
“The next day,” Vicky said in a rush, feeling that she might be losing her audience, “when Keith woke up . . . he had turned into a Negro. His fair skin had turned dark brown and his straight blond hair had become black and crinkly.” She waited for Sarah’s reaction, but none came. It was as if she had gone catatonic, glaring at Vicky with her pale brown eyes as if trying to hypnotize her. “Keith’s wife almost had heart failure when she woke up the next morning and found a black man in bed with her.” She chuckled. “But the children thought the whole thing was quite delightful. Aren’t children wonderful?”
During the long pause that followed, Sarah’s face remained as solid as if it had been chipped from ice. Then, slowly, her lips stretched to a crooked sneer; her eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils fluttering in spasms. “You . . . are . . . insane!” she rasped. Her voice rose from deep within her chest. “Either that, or you’re the worst liar in the entire world. If something like that happened it would have made the headlines of every newspaper in the country. You must think I’m an absolute moron! The idea . . .”
“Not at all,” Vicky cried. “Can you imagine what would have happened if all this got out?”
Sarah’s face went blank; all the muscles turned flaccid.
“Just think of all those people who live at Three Mile Island,” Vicky explained, “and work there making fall-out, or whatever it is they do. Those brave people know that another ‘incident’ is possible, and they accept the threat, knowing full well that terrible things could happen. They could be killed, or their children maimed. They accept all that . . . as long as it’s just a threat. But you know how some people are,” she added with a wise narrowing of her eyes. “If they were given proof that they could turn colored, the place would be deserted in an hour! Then who’d make our fall-out?”
Sarah’s lips parted, and stayed that way. “But your son . . . ”
“That’s why it’s a government secret,” Vicky interjected. “Top secret, remember that. When Keith went to report what had happened to him, the officials didn’t even believe it was him until they took his fingerprints. He’s been kept under cover ever since it happened, in a sort of witness protection program. He’s not allowed anywhere near Three Mile Island, and can only see his family away from there, when the government allows him to. They’ve been giving him tests to see what caused his change, and to turn him white again . . . if they can. That’s important, because if another ‘incident’ should occur, then everyone within a hundred mile radius of the plant could be affected . . . if not the whole country!”
Vicky watched as Sarah’s face paled to an even whiter shade than her powder. There was a faint tinge of green around her lips. Fascinating. It was like watching a thermometer, the color rising and falling in her face as her emotions ebbed and flowed.
“Personally,” Vicky said, “I think it would be rather exciting. Such a change after a lifetime of being just one color, don’t you think? Can’t you just visualize yourself as being colored?”
Sarah was growing more and more colored every minute—green. Are you feeling quite well, dear?” Vicky asked. “Maybe you should go lie down for a while.”
Sarah nodded as if in a daze, looked away from her. Her napkin slid from her lap to the floor, unnoticed, as she strained up from the table with great effort. She left without a word, eyes directed toward the door, unseeing.
“That’s all right, dear,” Vicky said to the waitress when she came to clear Sarah’s place. “I’ll take her dessert.”
* * *
The parlor, across the entranceway from the dining room in the front of the house, was abuzz with talk as Vicky entered after dinner. A quick glance showed her that Sarah had recuperated from her trauma, and was reporting the seven o’clock news to a circle of eager ears. Vicky perused the collection of magazines on the grand piano between the two tall windows, pretending to be unaware that the conversation had quieted considerably at her entrance. Only an occasional what? and/or ridiculous! reached her from the animated group. She grinned, feeling almost physically the number of eyes that were concentrated on her back.
She selected a copy of Sports Illustrated showing the Olympic ice skater, Eric Heiden (thunder thighs, she called him), on the cover, and the current week’s issue of the Jamesville Journal, to see what was happening in the area, if anything.
Since the group was congregated around Sarah at the far end of the room, Vicky had a choice of places to sit. She chose a sofa near the fireplace, a twin of the one in the dining room, beneath a Tiffany-style floor lamp. Vicky ran her fingers over the glass shade, as she’d done so long ago as a child in the grand old house in Newport. She could almost feel the iridescence of the blues and purples, the lushness of the
greens and reds. The style and grace, considered for so long to be passé, was once again in vogue.
She settled herself on the sofa, the warmth and smell from the fire making her feel cozily at home, but a bit sleepy. She decided to save the sports magazine for later, to read after she’d written her nightly letter, and leafed through the newspaper. Nothing of any world-moving importance was reported, she found, but a Spring Festival on the fairgrounds, wherever they were, sounded as if it might be fun. And a listing for a contest attracted her attention:
FOWLER COUNTY SPRING PHOTO CONTEST
Vicky read all the regulations, the list of prizes, and the deadline. She had a tiny Minox camera that Keith had sent her for her birthday years ago and had never used it. It might be fun to finally try it out.
“Mrs. Banning?” a male voice inquired. The sound startled her; she’d been so engrossed with the contest regulations that she’d forgotten to expect a delegate from the “media.” It had taken longer than she’d expected.
A tall, slim, good looking gentleman stood before her. He was nattily dressed, with a vested suit, gold-rimmed glasses and a short goatee that made her think of Don Quixote. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, with the deep warmth of a consoling priest. “May I speak with you for a moment?”
Vicky affected her most charming smile, not entirely a put-on. How had she missed seeing him before? “Certainly,” she said, then patted the blue velvet cushion beside her. “It’s Miz, Banning incidentally,” she said. “But you can call me Vicky.”
The man hitched the knees of his trousers and half-sat, sideways on the sofa, facing her. He seemed embarrassed, yet concerned, the brow beneath his white widow’s peak was slightly furrowed. “I feel rather awkward,” he said. “My name is Burton Williams. “
“How do you do?” Vicky responded. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve met only Sarah Carstairs, so far. It’s very nice of you to introduce yourself . . . makes a person feel so welcome.” If I get any sweeter, I’ll gag, she thought. “May I call you Burton?”
“Yes, of course,” Burton said, trying to smile, but looking more and more uncomfortable. “Please do.”
Vicky watched him study her face, his gray eyes narrowing behind the bi-focals as his head tipped to one side. “Ms, er . . . Vicky,” he began, “please believe that I’m not the sort of man who listens to wom . . . to idle gossip, but I’ve just heard something that concerns quite a few of us here.”
“Oh?” Vicky said, smiling still. “And what might that be?”
Burton lowered his eyes to his hands, watching his thumbnails flick at each other.
“We heard about your son,” he said softly.
“Keith?” Vicky said, looking pleasantly surprised. “What about him?”
Burton looked up at her, slowly, his face tinted with a most become blush. “We’ve been told about him being at Three Mile Island.” His tone apologized for breaching so delicate a subject. “Since a number of us have families in that area we’re, naturally, concerned about anything that might affect them.”
“Well, of course you are,” Vicky said with great sympathy. She switched her look, abruptly, to one of confusion. “But what has that to do with my son?”
“We know what happened to him because he worked there,” Burton mumbled.
“My
son?”
Vicky laughed. “My son is a banker in Boston,” she said. Or
a butcher in Barstow, or a baker in Berkeley,”
Vicky thought. Whatever’s
convenient. “What
made you think he worked at Three Mile Island?”
It was Burton’s turn to look confused, but his look extended into total consternation. “Didn’t you tell Sarah”—he halted, realizing that he’d let the name slip out but, since he couldn’t retract it, continued—“that you and your husband, a Swedish count, had a son who turned Black after the incident at Three Mile? That the man who carried your bags into The Sanctuary was your son?”
Vicky’s eyes and mouth flew open with surprise. She held the pose until she was sure it had registered, then chuckled softly before letting it blossom into full-chested (such as it was) laughter, watching all the while as the group of “bystanders” drew closer. “My son?” she said, between gasps, then let her laughter subside to a Cheshire grin. “The man who carried my bags was a taxi driver, an extremely nice and intelligent gentleman, I might add. I’m sure that any woman would be proud to call him her son, but how could anyone imagine him to be mine?
“As for my husband, I don’t remember mentioning to Sarah that I was even married, much less to a Swedish count. It’s a lovely thought, I must say, but I’m afraid I’ve never met one, much less marry one. Banning is an English name, not Swedish, and Gerald, my son’s father, was an actor.” A little truth can’t hurt. “From Akron.” Not too much, though. “Tell me,” she said, lowering her voice to a stage whisper, “does Sarah often make up stories? Or maybe like to tipple a bit? Poor dear, she must be older than I thought. Probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”
Burton looked dumbfounded. “But, when the driver left, you told him not to forget to write.”
Vicky nodded. “As I said, he’s a very intelligent man.” He told me that when he gets home from work he’s so tired that he often forgets to work on the book he’s writing. So I told him . . . oh, my goodness . . . and you thought I meant for him to write to me.” Effervescent giggles burst forth from her.
While Vicky was so engaged, Burton turned away from her, leading with his firm lower jaw, to glare at Sarah, who had made her way to the forefront of the observers. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” he snapped at her. “Always the troublemaker, aren’t you?” He stood, stretched his long, lean body to its fullest height. “Now you’re trying to make fools of us all while picking on this charming little lady here. Well, I’ve had it with you. I don’t want to hear another gossipy word, or anything else you have to say.”
He turned back to Vicky. “I am so sorry for all of this,” he said, spreading his hands before him. “Would you like to join us? We’re going to the TV lounge to watch Lawrence Welk.”
The Beatles were more Vicky’s style, but she said, “Yes, thank you. I would. You go on, though and I’ll be along in just a few moments. Please save me a seat,” she added for Burton’s ears only. The members of the elderly group filed from the room through the far door. Each avoided Sarah, who had sunk defeated and without a word into an armchair, as they passed.
Vicky felt a twinge of guilt at Sarah’s forlorn figure, but she felt, as she always had, that if you’re going to get caught telling lies about someone, you should at least make up your own lies.
Sarah was studying the fingertips on one hand as they pressed against the tips of the other, seemingly deep in thought. Vicky rose with her magazine and crossed behind her chair. “I told you it was a secret,” she said lightly, as she swept from the room.
It must have taken Sarah a few moments to realize what Vicky had said, to discover that now she didn’t know which story was true, if either.
As Vicky made her exit, she was followed by a long, wailing, “Whaaaaat?”
VICKY BANNING
Chapter IV
The following morning, Vicky was in her bathroom, wrestling with a fluffy pink thing that refused to give up its hold on the toilet seat, when she heard a knock on her bedroom door. After a last futile tug, she uttered a wrathful “I shall return,” and retreated, temporarily. Opening the door only slightly, she peeked through the crack to see a slight young man with a blond wave sweeping across his forehead, and a hint of a cleft in his chin. He was dressed in a denim suit; his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, to reveal a spray of russet chest-hair.
Gorgeous, she thought, and wondered just what services the Sanctuary did provide.
“Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”
The young man cocked his head to one side, paralleling Vicky’s, and smiled. “Ms Banning?”
She nodded.