Vicky Banning (2 page)

“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 always pay 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, and begin to 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, straightening up while her face became 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
Ye
Oldee
Tea
Shoppee
.”

“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 young man. You are so very 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…

“Make yourself comfortable, ma’am,” the driver had said, a week or so earlier. He had 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 live 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
two
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 had 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. The setting 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, not particularly amused.

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 skating 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, swirling around to survey the landscape when she reached the top. The lawn swept downward and 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; alert children holding hands to form 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 and 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. Suddenly,
Doris
’s eyes glinted knowingly and she smiled. Vicky grinned back. They had reached an unspoken understanding.

“
Miz
Banning,”
Doris
said with a nod. “I couldn’t be sure. It seems you forgot to fill in a number of blanks on your application.”

“I never forget anything,” Vicky said with a beguiling 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 and leaned forward, motioning 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 stooped, as 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
took Vicky on a short tour of the Sanctuary, before she 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, erupting quickly into rich, contralto laughter and 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 at all, 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 and shook, 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.