Vicky Banning (3 page)

“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.

* * * *

Later, after she’d rested, 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 in which she’d ever dined. 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 think 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.

“Oh, that’s Mrs.
Carstairs
,”
Doris
said hesitantly. “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 uncertain, but soon agreed, grinning with an elfin-like spark 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 announcing
It’s my toy, so don’t touch 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. Ha
ha
ha
.”

Vicky glanced up at her with a look of surprised revelation. “Oh! You mean tell you about 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.”

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 across the table Sarah was pummeled and nearly drowned. 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, but 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, continuing 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. “Y
es?”

“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 cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. “I am sorry,” she said, when she felt she had enough control. “I shouldn’t have said any…”

“I won’t tell a
soul!
” Sarah blurted out.

No souls, just people with big mouths,
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, checking 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 long 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, 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 onto her chair, eyes staring to her plate.

“Nothing, just
then,
” Vicky said, continuing to whisper, as if unaware 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 Vicky’s forehead with her eyes. Her mouth was screwed to a tight, wrinkled spot, a low growl emanating forth.

“Well, 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 decipher gibberish. “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 are the worst liar ever created. If something like that happened it would have made the headlines of every newspaper in the
world
! 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 turning flaccid.

“Just think of those poor 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 a shade even whiter 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 at 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, albeit 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-shaking 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 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” that was sure to come. It had taken a tad 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. She cast him mentally in the role 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?”