Vicky Banning (17 page)

The audience laughed and applauded with vigorous appreciation. Terri looked surprised and a little hurt. “What’s so funny?” he asked. “
All
the queens of
Egypt
weren’t white, you know.” He sashayed to the edge of the stage, his white satin dress gleaming against his smooth dark skin. The audience screamed for more, they loved him.
So much for being too risqué, and for the audience’s lack of sophistication
. They cheered him back for three curtain calls before they’d let him leave for good. Small town people may be quiet about their worldliness, but often are as sharp as any urban know-it-all.

“They’re all yours, honey,” Terri said in his normally deep voice as he stepped through the curtain near where Vicky was waiting. “Break a leg.”

Vicky laughed delightedly; she hadn’t heard the “good luck” theatrical expression in years. She kissed his powdered cheek, saying, “You were absolutely super, doll. Thank you, and lots of luck to you, too.”

Terri laughed back, saying, “Thanks, I can use it. I’m now off to be the first Black at your Blackjack table.” He flounced off, a platinum-
tressed
zaftig
aflutter in layers and layers of ostrich feathers—and steadier on spike heels than Vicky had ever been.

“And now for our pièce de résistance,” she heard
Doris
announce in the lounge and she turned, smiling to the curtain. She’d rehearsed in secret, away from the Sanctuary, with a pianist and drummer, so
Doris
had no idea what her act would be like, nor did anyone else. She sidled through the curtains into the darkness of the stage, closing them behind her, knowing that the audience’s attention would be on
Doris
in the spotlight. “Our own Ms. Vicky
Banning!
”

The spot swung over to Vicky, glared off her white-sequined sheath, her long silver gloves and hair. She smiled with the brilliance of a star and seemed to glide across the stage to stand before the ebony piano—accompanied by deafening applause. She dipped her head to the left, then to the right, where her friends were seated in the front row—making sure she never lost eye contact with the crowd.
Good
, she thought, Roger had managed to get
Doris
and Steve seated side-by-side.

As the piano keys fluttered softly, the spotlight narrowed to embrace Vicky in a blue aureole, tinting her dress and hair to faceted sapphire.

Vicky’s voice no longer had the clarity or vigor of youth, but the lost qualities had been replaced by emotion, experience that only time could endow: the mournful moans of Billie; Judy’s desperation. Her smile softened and she began to sing:

“My yesterdays are clearer to me now…”

so much dearer to me now…”

As she sang, she imagined Gerald slipping up to stand beside her, felt his presence. His warmth imbued her body—

“If only we had paused a while…

to look back a while…”

—she felt his hands on her bare shoulders, caressing her arms. They ran down to clasp her hands, pressing them, enfolding—

“…we hurried as we danced through all our years…”

—she leaned back into his arms as he tightened his hold, drawing her closer, surrounding her with his strength—

“Yesterday is past, today is now, and tomorrow…

well, we’ll have to wait and see…”

—the sweet-dry scent of the cologne that Gerald had worn so long, long ago wafted over her shoulder, filling her senses with his presence—

“Our love has spanned the years…”

Her voice broke as she felt a gentle kiss brush her ear, but she sang through it, lifting her tear-filled eyes to the spotlight as the piano and cymbals rose to a crescendo—

 
“…but my yes…
ter
…days are
heeeeere
…”

The light dwindled to a single spot on her face as her lids lowered, pressing the tears from her eyes to roll down her cheeks. As the spot began to fade, Vicky’s voice and the music ebbed away, leaving her in silent darkness.

Not a sound could be heard in the crowded expanse, not a voice, not a cough, not movement. Ever so slowly, the lights in the room began to emerge, revealing Vicky standing alone and still by the piano, her head bowed to her chest. Hesitantly, the applause began, scattered, tentative, unsure whether she’d permit an encroachment on her obvious despair. Then, one-by-one, as if the audience was reviving in stages from its reverie, the applause grew, and grew further, until it became a tumultuous roar of accolades. Suddenly a cry of “Unbelievable” propelled from the near-darkness, followed by rousing shouts of “Brava!” and “Fabulous!” expanded and bellowed with the raising of the lights on stage and around the room. “Brilliant! Wonderful!” were called, but she seemed not to hear.

With her eyes still closed, she raised her eyes, smiling bravely with tender sorrow through her tears. She gazed about her and out to the audience, as if unsure of where she was, a single thought wafting through her mind:
How’s that grab
ya
, Lee Strasberg?

“Thank you…” Vicky began humbly, but was interrupted by shouts of “Encore! Encore!” She bowed gratefully, seemingly overwhelmed by the ovation, her hands rose to clasp at her heart as if to quell the effluent joy within—then raised them high in adulation. The cheers became uproarious. “More! More!” the audience shouted, now as a chorus, again and again, until Vicky motioned to them for silence—but not insisting on it.

“Please,” she whispered, eyes lowered with humility, knowing exactly where the mikes were hidden. “You’re much too kind. I would love to do another number, but I simply have nothing prepared.”

“
Do
anything
,” a woman called, and the crowd cheered her on “Improvise! Song and Dance! Anything!”

“Well,” said Vicky after a slight pause, with great hesitancy. “If you really
want
me to.” She waited just long enough for the renewed uproar to settle before speaking again. “If you’ll allow me just a moment, I’ll try to think of something.”

Applause filled the room again, then calmed as Vicky stood facing the piano, her back to the audience, seemingly deep in thought. She began to glissade sumptuously across the stage, her head lowered, but with her eyes glancing out at the audience, a slight curve to her lips. The spot followed her until she reached the edge of the platform; she turned back easing into a slinking movement toward the opposite edge. The crowd watched in silent, apprehensive, but uncertain silence.

When she turned back again her step became, almost imperceptibly, more animated; her dress and hair emanating a glow of color: flesh, perhaps, or pink, as the room lights began to dim and the gels came into play. She crossed the stage once again, gaining momentum as the color deepened. A sound was heard, a throbbing, in time with her movements. It had been there all the while, increasing in intensity so gradually that it had gone unnoticed, until the pace Vicky had reached became a jaunty stride, her head held high, face deepening into shadow from the overhead lights.

The dress was now fuchsia-pink, intensifying still, faster now as she quickened her step. Her movements grew bolder, ever more determined as the pulsing increased. She jounced, rolling as if she were treading on a mattress. Her hands rose to clasp the air before her chest, as if supporting great springing breasts.

The beat grew faster still, heated and backed by strident chords from the piano, counter-rhythms filling the lapses between downbeats with alternating pulses, increasing in intensity and speed, insisting on a response. Vicky stalked; her shoulders surged from side to side, opposing her hips—then she stopped! Dead! She stood frozen for endless moments in center stage bathed in a torrid red, the sequins of her dress flicking specks of fire throughout the room, embers in the darkness.

Her leer was that of a Delilah, a Circe, as she ran her palms down her sides to her tiny waist, then flared outward to mold the hips of a Venus.

Bump-bump-a-Rump, bump-a-Rump! T
he drum sounded, softly at first, gaining in its insistence as it continued.

Vicky spun around, her back to the audience, and reached behind her to the clasp at the neckline of her dress
. Bump-bump-a-Rump!
She turned back slowly, to face the light, her fingers descending along the zipper behind her with tantalizing slowness, until she could reach no lower.

Bump-bump-a-Rump!
Her arms swept forward, then one hand reached behind her, lowering slowly to her waist and beyond, while the other pressed the dress to her bodice.
Bump-bump-a-Rump!

“My
God
,” a woman whispered shrilly. “She’s really going to
do
it!”

Bump-bump-a-Rump!
Vicky stooped sensuously to the hiss of brushes caressing the surface of the drum with lush, smooth strokes, as the hand behind her lowered almost to the floor.

Bump-bump-a-Rump, bump-a-Rump, bump-a-rump-a-rump-a-Rump
! She straightened up, languorously, one hand across her chest and the other pressing the dress to her thigh. As she stepped backward, the dress swept forward, held to her body by her hands. She extended a shoe beyond the hem as the hand on her thigh crept her skirt higher, inch-by-inch up her leg, releasing it when it reached her knee.

Bump-bump-a-Rump, bump-a-Rump!
the drum beat out, exhilarating, faster and faster as Vicky stalked again from side-to-side. She prowled like a leopard in heat, back and forth, pacing with ever-quickening strides. The drumbeats drew closer together until they became a rolling cacophony of thunder.

Vicky appeared to be in the throes of frenzy; she challenged center stage, clawing at the front of her dress, as if to tear it from her body, twisting, tearing. She clenched the material tightly with her fingers, then thrust them from her with a silent cry of anguish—C
ymbal Crash!
—her fingers flared open—B
lackout!

The darkness trembled, silent but for the echoing gasps and the throbbing pulsations of the stilled drum. Suddenly, a glaring light burst once again upon the stage, blinding, painful…and a single pin-pointed spot focused on Vicky, standing center-stage, fully clothed, a finger pressed to her cheek beside her pursed smile. The audience remained silent, stunned, uncertain of what they’d just seen—until someone bellowed,
“Viva, Vicky!”
and stood, applauding vigorously. It was
Burton
,
dirty old man
, and Vicky grinned at him, adding a wink as a special acknowledgement. Pandemonium broke out on all sides.

Pantomime!
Everyone seemed to realize it at once. Vicky hadn’t stripped at all, hadn’t removed a glove or even shown a kneecap. The bumps and grinds had been mere timed impressions. She had paused on the drum’s heaviest downbeats, letting the primed imagination of the audience supply the movement. And it was all spontaneous—at least that’s what most of the audience thought.

About as impromptu as a Busby
Berkeley
musical!
Vicky thought to herself with a grin.

En masse, everyone stood, cheering, laughing and calling,
Fantastic! Brilliant! Incredible!

And Vicky agreed.

A swarm of admirers surrounded her, shook her hands, kissed her cheeks and praised her performance. Doris, Roger and Steve were among the first at her side, chattering away with excitement, to her and to each other—including a bubbling exchange between Doris and Steve.

Vicky pretended not to notice their banter, but motioned to Roger with her eyes to watch how the two
divorcees
were relating to one another. Roger caught her look, nodded quickly with a smile, and winked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vicky announced, raising her hands for silence. “Most of what you just saw was illusion”—another round of applause burst forth—“created by true artists: George, our lighting expert, and Joe and Clive, our master musicians.”

The three men stood and bowed—George, shakily atop his ladder. The audience rewarded them with a renewed flourish of enthusiasm. “I could never have done it without each and every one of them,” Vicky added. “Illusions are often more fun than reality, but the poor of St. Sebastian’s parish are no illusion. They need your help! Badly! So, now that the commercial’s over, let’s get on with the party. Everyone into the casino, so we can empty your purses.”

More laughter and applause followed, and the crowd began to disperse through the far door into the converted crafts room.

Susanne, the governor’s wife, rushed to Vicky’s side. “I’m going to call you,” she said hurriedly, before her husband rushed her off to the casino.

“Vicky,
Doris
, you’ve done a sensational job with this evening,” the handsome young vicar said. He’d waited behind as the groups of people thinned out, grinning. His wife stood beside him, her smile as happy and secretive as a child’s. “I don’t know if all your affairs have been this successful,” the vicar continued. “You displayed such incredible variety. I’ve never enjoyed a benefit more.”

“Neither have I,” said his wife with a laugh. “Most of them are so serious and stuffy.” She giggled softly, then motioned for Vicky to lean toward her, whispering in her ear, “I wish I could do something like that last number of yours.”

Vicky whispered back, “Try it at home for that good-looking man of yours. Not that you need it, I’m sure, but his reaction might surprise you.”

“I may just do that,” the young woman said, stepping back. “But I doubt that I’ll be too surprised—I just hope he doesn’t faint.” She giggled again then, hooking her arm with the vicar’s, strolled away with a slightly more noticeable sway to her hips.

“Lord, get me to a chair,” Vicky said, taking Roger’s arm. “These flipping shoes are killing me. A couple of times during the last number I thought I’d go bum over teakettle.”

“It certainly didn’t show,” Steve said as Vicky lowered herself into the chair and eased off her shoes. “I didn’t notice a thing. Did you,
Doris
?”

“Not at all,”
Doris
replied. She sat next to Vicky, turning to her. “How did you ever imagine an act like that? Have you done it before?”

“No,” Vicky laughed, “but it’s something I’ve always wanted to try.” She rubbed the soreness of one foot against the other. “I saw something like it once, though, in
New York
. It was a revival of
Pal Joey
. The wonderful Eileen
Heckert
was playing the retired burlesque queen. She been coerced into doing a strip and did it to a number called “Zip.” Pantomiming to some stripper music, she pretended to unzip all the zippers on her costume as the spotlight grew smaller. She was fantastic!”

“You must know a lot of people in show business,” Steve said.

“No, I don’t, really,” Vicky said seriously, “except for those we worked with. It may sound peculiar, but we made a point of not getting to know many of them. Back when Gerald and I worked the West End of London, we socialized with some of the self-proclaimed ‘illustrious’ people who trod the ‘sacred boards,’ but found too many of them to be disappointments. On stage they may have been brilliant when portraying others, but off-stage many were priggish, egotistic, rude…and some even downright crazy. We couldn’t enjoy their performances afterward, knowing what they were really like.” She hefted a foot to her knee, massaging it tenderly. “Ooh,” she moaned. “I’m afraid my tap-dancing days are over…it’s all up to you now, Ginger.”

“Here,” Roger said. “Let me do that.” He lifted her feet to his lap and kneaded the soles with his thumbs.

Vicky closed her eyes and leaned back, surrendering to his ministrations. “That feels gorgeous,” she said. “Don’t stop until you reach my clavicles.”

Their laughter was interrupted by the sound of a commotion that reached them through the casino door, cries of “Oh! Watch out!” and “What happened?”

Doris
jumped to her feet and rushed for the door, a billowing storm of silver lame, followed by Vicky carrying her shoes, then Roger and Steve.

“What’s going on here?”
Doris
demanded when her mini-cavalry troupe had elbowed through the crowd at the center of the room. The sheriff was lying flat out on the dice table, his knees propped on the ledge, feet dangling. He seemed to be asleep with his eyes partly open. The crowd had backed off, as if denying any association with him, their looks ranging from surprise, to indignation, to humor.

“It wasn’t her fault,” a woman called out.

“
Whose
fault?”
Doris
asked, but received no answer. She was growing upset, angry tears rising to her eyes. She began to tremble with disappointment and confusion. Things had been going so well.

“The sheriff was being obnoxious to some woman at one of the tables,” the dice man said. “I could hear it from here. He was trying to make a pass, it sounded like. Loud, like he must have been drunk or something. The next think I knew, he came flying across the table, practically landing in my lap.

“Best right cross I ever saw,” someone in the crowd offered.

Vicky had been using Steve’s arm for support while putting on her shoes. Standing tall again, she saw that
Doris
was about to either blubber with frustration, or scream with rage.
Time to take charge.
“All right, everyone,” she announced. “This was just a little added
entertainment
for those of you who missed the show.” She gestured for two plain-clothes security guards from
Atlantic City
to come forward. “Now, if you gentlemen will escort our reclining
star
off-stage, we can continue with our party. I think both performers deserve a round of applause for their efforts, don’t you?”

She began to clap, pretending unawareness of the strange looks cast in her direction. Then the looks changed to smiles, followed by good-natured applause and laughter, as the sheriff’s prostrate bulk was hauled up from the green felt sarcophagus.

“And where’s the lady who performed so well?” Vicky called.

“Right here,” came a deep, masculine voice. The crowd parted.

Terri!
The sheriff must have thought that the
lone, six-feet-two blond Nubian in feathers was fair game. Most of the crowd in the room had seen the show and their laughter burst forth, filling the room and leaving those who hadn’t seen it in confusion. Terri was very convincing, visually, but beneath all the glitter and fluff there beat the heart of a true scrapper.

“
Winnah
by a K.O.,” Vicky announced, raising Terri’s hand as high as she could reach. “Our own
Black Harlow
!”

* * * *

“I guess the sheriff hadn’t seen the show,”
Doris
said the next morning, after breakfast. They were seated in the dining room having a second pot of tea, the mornings having turned too cool for outdoor lounging. From their table by the window, they were enjoying the view of the sunlit lawn and the maple trees beyond, which were flecked with sprays of red and gold leaves glittering in a bed of darkness, like Christmas lights. The workmen were finishing the clean-up of the main floor, and the dining room was nearly empty. Vicky had brushed her hairdo out and her face was framed in soft waves; a gentle dip swept across the right side of her forehead.

“I’d be surprised if he had,” Vicky said. “He probably wouldn’t recognize a show for what it was without a glass tube propped in front of him, or a movie screen…if he could see at all, that is. What on earth did you put in his drink?”

“Not a thing,”
Doris
said. “Somehow he got the impression that all his drinks were on the house. He was belting them back with a vengeance trying, I suppose, to get his ‘money’s worth.’”

“I wonder what happened to his poor wife,” Vicky murmured. “I didn’t see her aft…”

“There you are,” someone called. Vicky turned to see
Burton
and Sarah heading toward them, together.
Burton
had barely spoken to Sarah or Vicky since the “engagement” announcement, yet he and Sarah appeared to be a most congenial couple. Perhaps her strategy for Steve and Doris had worked on these two as well.

“We just wanted to tell you both how very much we enjoyed the party last night,” Sarah said as
Burton
held a chair for her. “I think it was the most exciting one ever. You two must work together on next year’s gala as well.”

Vicky looked away. She sipped at her tea with distracted concentration. It was too soon to tell them that she wouldn’t be around next year.

“Indeed,” said
Burton
. “And Vicky, your performance was superb! The entire show was…even the girls who sang that rock stuff, which surprised me greatly.”

“The Opals, you mean?” Vicky said, brightening. “They were wonderful, weren’t they? That reminds me; Susanne, the governor’s wife called this morning. She wants to hire the Opals to perform at their daughter’s birthday party. When I called to tell them, they were ecstatic, offering to do the show for nothing. I told them ‘No way!’ Doing free gigs are fine
after
you’ve
‘made it’
—it’s tax deductible then—but you have to pocket all the money you can, while you can, until you hit stardom. I’d love them to succeed. They’ve really worked hard.”

“I’m also arranging for Terri to audition for
Finocchio’s
in
San Francisco
. That’s one of the oldest and most prestigious drag clubs in the country. I really think he has the talent to work as a professional.”

“All the weeding out you did at the auditions really paid off,”
Doris
said. “You found some super people!”

“Yes,” Vicky agreed with a mock frown. “And most of them in the first two days, but I have to admit that it was fun. Maybe we should search out a play that we could cast with the Sanctuary residents. It could be a lark.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarah said, shying away, but her eyes gleamed with interest. “It wouldn’t seem…”

“If you say ‘dignified,’” Vicky said, “I’ll crown you. Some of the most dignified women I’ve ever known have been actresses. Lillian Gish, for example. I remember seeing her once, about thirty years ago on Broadway…why, that’s it! That’s the play we could use. It’s perfect. Let’s run down…”

“Vicky,”
Doris
said with exaggerated forbearance, “you’re way ahead of yourself again. Calm down and tell us what you’re talking about. What play? And what’s so perfect about it?”

Vicky let out an elaborate sigh. “Doesn’t anybody read minds anymore?” she laughed. “Sorry about that. I’ve already got the production started in my head. It’s a play called
The Curious Savage
, by John Patrick. I always remember author’s names; you never know when they’ll write something for you. Anyway, it’s a lovely, touching story about an old woman, Mrs. Savage, who’s committed to a semi-mental home by her children. They’re trying to get her money, you see.”

“Sounds charming,”
Burton
said dryly.

“Oh, but it can be,” Vicky continued, “if it’s played right. The main point of the story is shown in the contrast between the simple worlds of the ‘guests’ in the home—all of whom are delightful characters, by the way—and the frenzied lives of the so-called ‘normal’ visitors and staff. It makes you wonder who’s saner.”

Doris
chuckled. “Maybe I could be the technical advisor, with all my experience here at the Sanctuary. I’d like to read it.”

“Good,” said Vicky. “Let’s drive into
Harrisburg
to see if we can find a copy.” She paused, looking doubtful. “Actually, I doubt we’ll be able to. I saw the play so long ago and I don’t think it ran very long. But I’m sure we can send for copies to the
Dramatists Play Service
in
New York
.”

“I wouldn’t be able to go today, anyway,”
Doris
said. “The drill instructor will be here soon and I have to round up the interested residents.”

“Oh, heavens!” Sarah piped up. “Is it that time already? I forgot he was due so soon. I’ll have to hide in my room until he leaves.”