Vicky Banning (5 page)

“Oh, oh, oh,” he drawled, looking at her as if she were a naughty puppy. “Why you dirty little old lady, you,” he said with a grin. “Vicky, Steve is a min-
er
, not a min-
or
. He digs iron ore from the mines west of here.” He shook his head with tolerant disappointment and sighed. “You really shouldn’t jump to conclusions like that. And if you’re not embarrassed, you should be.”

Vicky felt a flush (she refused to acknowledge it as a blush) rising from her neck to her face. “I knew that,” she said, not meaning it to sound truthful, and knowing it wouldn’t be taken as such no matter how she said it. “I just wanted to see your reaction.”

“Oh, sure. Of course you did,” Roger said, nodding and drawing out the words. “Sure you did.” He, too, was speaking without the pretense of honesty. He started the car. “It’s too bad you couldn’t see your own expression. I think you’d have appreciated it. The epitome of righteousness.” He chuckled at the windshield as Vicky glowered at him with vaudevillian intensity.

Lawn statues and birdbaths gave way to tree-lined lanes as they drove. Tendril-like branches, lush with newly sprouted leaves, met high above the center of the road, directing their vision straight ahead. Nearing the top of a rise, Roger gestured. “Here’s where the scenery changes,” and slowed the car as they reached the summit.

It was like lush drapery opening in a darkened theatre to reveal a brightly lit stage. Below them, demarked as if by lines on a map, was open farmland, a sunlit quilt of red and tan, dotted with miniature white houses and barns, the whole enclosed in a shadowed sweep of the distant
Appalachians
.

“It’s lovely,” Vicky gasped of the awesome scene. “It reminds me of the valleys in
Switzerland
, in springtime when the melting snows send streams rushing down to the lowlands. Are those Penn Dutch farms? I’d love to visit one. I’ve never seen a real hex sign, and maybe we could buy some preserves.”

Roger shook his head. “I’m afraid none of these farms is open to tourists,” he said. “And they don’t take kindly to people stopping by to gawk at them. They value their privacy.”

Vicky could certainly concur with their feelings. “People actually do that?” A stirring of irritation rose within her at such thoughtlessness. “I certainly wouldn’t. I admire them immensely, how they’ve managed to maintain their customs in a country that thinks the staples of life are fast foods, cars, and television is commendable. I don’t understand how small-minded some people can be at times.”

“I agree completely,” Roger said and turned to look at her with a directness that she hadn’t seen before. “It’s funny, they’re strong and independent, yet I feel protective towards them or of their privacy at least. It infuriates me when I hear them ridiculed.”

Vicky scanned the panorama as Roger eased the car into a U-turn in the middle of the road. She felt a vague homesickness for the place, although she’d never been there before. The feeling wasn’t new, though; she’d experienced it often, in various parts of the world, and relished its mystery.

“As for the hex signs,” Roger was saying, “some people claim that they’re just for decoration, paintings of birds and flowers, and the locals don’t discourage them. It’s mainly the tourists who romanticize them. Everyone loves a little bit of magic, don’t they?”

“I didn’t know that about the hex signs,” Vicky said and smiled at him. “You see what you get for being interested in everything? You can learn lots of things, from lots of people. Well, where are we off to now?”

Roger grinned without turning. “If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll take you to my place and introduce you to Muffin.”

Vicky was delighted. “Sound like the best proposition I’ll have all day,” she said. “Of course, it isn’t
noon
yet.”

* * * *

Vicky hadn’t noticed the path until Roger turned onto it and she heard the crunch of gravel under the wheels. The house was completely hidden from the public road, barely visible through the trees and shrubbery from the private one. When a clearing opened before them, Roger circled a short, curving driveway to the entrance.

“It’s charming,” Vicky exclaimed. “Like a gingerbread house…and I’m the wicked old witch come to corrupt young boys with my goodies.” She winked at him as she stepped from the car.

A high-pitched yipping came from within the house, and Roger dashed to unlock the door. “Meet Muffin,” he announced, swinging it open.

A gold and silver blur streaked through the door, emitting a series of shrill complaints and reproaches. Muffin spun around and around without seeming to touch the ground, then scrambled up to Roger’s knee, begging to be picked up.

“Well, it’s obvious she’s not at all pleased to see you,” Vicky said with a laugh. “I can tell that you treat her just terribly. Why, she’s no bigger than a minute!” she added, watching the bundle of fur scurry over Roger’s shoulder when he raised her up.

“Yeah, right,” Roger responded with his face full of kissing dog. “Dreadful beast; I can’t stand her at all.”

“Can I hold her?”

“She’s very shy, believe it or not,” Roger said, holding his tail-twitching parcel out toward her. “But if you don’t fuss at her, she’ll settle down.”

Vicky received the wide-eyed bundle into her arms, the silky coat flowing over her hands and scratched her gently behind her ears. Two amber orbs looked up into hers, studying her from within a splay of golden hair. A pink tongue poked out from beneath a black-button nose to flick at Vicky’s chin.

“You’ve passed muster,” Roger laughed. “She’s usually much more hesitant.”

Vicky grinned. “Animals often have better taste than humans. I love
Yorkies
. They’re so tiny, but feisty as the devil.”

“Her nickname is Raga,” Roger informed her and waited.

Raga-Muffin
? Vicky thought, then turned to glance sideways at Roger with an “
oh, really”
look. “That’s silly,” she said, but added, “I think I’m in love—twice in one day; I must be living right.”

She let Muffin loose at the door and stepped across the threshold. The house was as tastefully decorated as Vicky had hoped it would be: straight lines, firm colors, and uncluttered with accumulations that time so often seemed to spawn. Best of all, it didn’t appear to be a decorator’s home at all.

Breakfast dishes were still in the sink, one of the beds was unmade—a double bed, she noticed—and a cushion, probably Muffin’s, was lying on the floor between the sofa and the old, brick fireplace in the living room.

It was a home, not just a showplace like so many of the professionals’ “residences” she’d seen through the years. They couldn’t really be called homes at all; they were so prissy-neat and immaculate that you felt you had to apologize for using the “powder room.”

“What do you think?” Roger asked after they’d toured the rooms and wound up back on the flagstone patio. He’d offered no excuses for the disarray, which instilled an even deeper feeling of comradeship for him in Vicky. Hell, for her, if there really was such a place, would be anywhere in which she had to do housework. It was one more thing
that she felt she and Roger had in common. He led her through one of the glass doors flanking the fireplace into the living room, which had been furnished in earth tones, with solid tables of rich, dark wood so highly polished they appeared wet.

“Oh, who’s this with
Doris
?” Vicky asked, lifting a framed photograph from a side counter. “He’s very good looking.”

“That’s Steve,” Roger replied. “The other one is of Doris and me when we were kids.”

“You’ve known each other that long, then? How nice. But how come there isn’t there a picture of the three of you together?”

Roger started to answer, but hesitated. “That’s a long story,” he said finally and turned away. “Well, what do you think of my own personal taste in decor? Mind you, it’s your taste that I’ll keep in mind if you decide to have me design your room.”

“I very much like your style,” Vicky answered, aware that Roger would understand the double meaning of her words. “Your tastes and mine match very well.” She looked again at Steve’s picture. “Very well indeed.” Her look turned thoughtful as she slowly turned to study the entire room. “I think I know what it is,” she added, studying the masculine furnishings. “Butch…yes, that’s it. Butch…but
flowing.”

Vicky spent the next few days in flurries of activity with Roger. They visited the shops in
Harrisburg
, ordering material for curtains, choosing furniture, and browsing through art galleries. Vicky especially enjoyed watching Roger squirm and turn crimson when she loudly announced to all (pretending she was hard of hearing) that they were on their honeymoon. Or, when she would bargain with the dealers and manage to secure items for lower prices than he would settle for with his decorator’s discount.

When the shopping was completed and all was in readiness for the actual work to begin, Roger insisted that Vicky move out of her room for two days, while he and his workers transformed it. She didn’t mind the move at all but, after the whirl of shopping and fun, she felt at a loss for what to do with herself at first, and then decided to explore the activities offered by the Sanctuary. She’d spent so much time away from the home that she hadn’t been able to acquaint herself with it, or with the other residents. The offer to watch Lawrence
Welk
a few nights before had been just that—to watch Lawrence
Welk
. No talking, no dancing—just watch. They might just as well have been attending a religious service—like a Judy Garland concert—but without the frenzy.

She carried her
Minox
everywhere, surreptitiously, hoping for a candid shot that she could enter into the Jamesville contest. But no such shot offered itself. The Sanctuary was pretty, as were some of the people in it, but pretty in itself was not interesting or unique. Many of the residents could have been photographed with a time exposure and come out sharply focused.

Classes were held in the TV room at the rear of the house, behind the parlor, and Vicky decided to try her hand at watercolors. She found it depressing. Every daub of paint she laid to paper ran to the bottom, forming a pool that she suspected, judging from the color, would make an excellent natural fertilizer.

She tried sculpting in clay, but no matter how much or how little she did to the glob of mushy, gray stuff, the results were always obscene. Protrusions and incisions seemed to form themselves without her help, and when she tried to mold something to her liking the results were absolutely vulgar. Finally, she flattened the entire mess to a pancake with the palm of her hand, dubbed it “crêpe de Banning,” and declared her artistic career at an end.

She bypassed the basket-weaving class with a shudder and continued onward to find a needle workshop in full swing, knitting and tatting to the swinging strains of Guy Lombardo.
Blueboy
! she thought. She’d almost forgotten about him. Years ago—as everything seemed to be, she realized—when her arthritis first became a nuisance, a doctor friend had recommended needlework as an exercise for her fingers. She’d bought a pre-painted needlepoint canvas of Gainsborough’s
Blueboy
,
and had gotten it more than half finished before the thousands of tiny holes made her contemplate the anesthetic benefits of alcohol.

The canvas was packed in plastic in one of her bags, available in the unlikely event that she would ever become
that
bored again. If she finished it in time she might even be able to enter it in the arts and crafts show that was being promoted on posters in every other room of the Sanctuary. It was an annual event, apparently, and the judges were the elite (as elite as you could get in a little town like Jamesville) of the community. The Mayor, the vicar of St. Sebastian’s (a new one, according to the posters), the sheriff, and their wives were to be the honored guests. Vicky thought it might be fun to work on a project again, and it would give her something to do in the evenings when she returned to her room.
You can watch only so much television
, she felt,
before you turn into a walking commercial
.

Wool and thread of every shade were displayed on a side table in the parlor, and Vicky crossed to them, stepping in time to the beat of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” She chose a sampling of colors that she felt might match the already completed areas of her canvas, smiling pleasantly at the busy-fingered music lovers, and made her exit. She had grown eager to get started, surprising herself. Never would she have imagined that
needlework,
of all things, would captivate her interest. Then she reminded herself that it wasn’t the needlepoint itself that had incited her enthusiasm, nor the crafts show, and grinned to herself.

With Doris busy conducting her classes, Burton off playing golf, and Roger hard at work in her room, Vicky was still at odds for something to do by herself, and decided to write her letter earlier in the day than usual.

She got to work on
Blueboy
that evening, in her “transient” room, and cross-stitched away until her eyes began to follow suit. She then put the canvas and wool away, determined to find some activity that would balance out the hours of dreary stitchery she’d have to endure if she were to finish the portrait on time for the show.

* * * *

Her little “foray” into town had been just what she’d needed. With a final wave to the young officer as he drove off in his police car, she slipped the pad into her purse beside the
Hummel
figurine and approached the Sanctuary, extremely pleased with herself.

Roger and Doris came through the door as she ascended the steps from the warm afternoon sun of the grounds into the cooling shade of the veranda. They acted pleasantly surprised to see her. “We’ve been looking for you,” Roger said, the cleft in his chin deepening with his smile. “Your room is finished. Come take a look.” He spoke quickly, eager as a little boy wanting to show Grandma what he’d made with his Erector set. He led the way.

“We’ve even managed to have your new phone number connected,”
Doris
said, “unheard of in this short a period of time. It took a little doing, but I convinced the phone company that a rush job was imperative.”

“Celebration time!” Vicky cried. “That’s wonderful! Tell you what…if you’re both free tonight, I’ll treat us all to dinner. I saw a lovely Italian restaurant the other day that I’d love to try and you can join me. And Roger, bring Steve along if you’d like. I’d like to meet him.”

The still silence that followed seemed to swarm around them. Roger looked somewhat embarrassed, traded quick glances with
Doris
, then said, “
Er
, no, Vicky. But thank you. I’m afraid Steve wouldn’t be able to make it tonight.”

Vicky had caught the quick exchange and wondered just what
was
between the two of them. Quickly, she said, “
Burton
, then. Maybe he’ll be able to come. We can double date, and who gets who is up for grabs.” She chuckled, imagining the four of them groping madly for one another—well, at least she certainly would. “Now let’s go see my new room.”

Sunlight shone through the open, glassed doors, forming a brilliant red rectangle on the wine-dark carpet. The single bed to the left was draped with a beige cover, and lined along the wall with squares of teal blue pillows. It had been transformed into a sitting room, the two stuffed chairs covered in stripes of blue and tan, facing each other across a round, mahogany table before the bed.

“And now for the pièce
de la résistance
,” Roger announced. He entered the bathroom and returned with a vase of red and white tulips, holding them out before him. “A gift for you, from the two of us.” He set the vase in the center of the table, the colors contrasting sharply and becomingly with the dark, highly polished wood.

Vicky noticed
Doris
’s look of surprise and realized that she hadn’t known about the “final touch” at all. Roger had thoughtfully included her in his gift. Vicky crossed to each of them and kissed their cheeks. “Thank you,” she said, “for all of this. It’s all just so lovely, especially coming from two such lovely people.” She smiled broadly at
Doris
, an eyebrow raised. “Bet you can’t guess where I got the idea for the color combination,” she teased.

“Are you kidding?”
Doris
laughed. “From Mark Spitz’s swimsuit, of course.” She pointed to the poster over Vicky’s bed. “Where else?”

Vicky grinned. “I wrote to him, asking to buy it, but he never answered my letter…I wonder why not?”

Doris and Roger laughed together, heartily, her chesty soprano and his resonant baritone mingling harmoniously in the crisp, new room.

After they left, Vicky sat in one of the new chairs, beside the telephone, and dialed information. When she received the number of the restaurant, she called it.

“Villa
d’Este
,” a man’s voice answered, with no trace of an accent other than, possibly, one from the
Midwest
.
So much for ethnic authenticity
. As Vicky gave him the information he requested to make the reservation, an idea came to her. She finished the call with a smile, then looked up another phone number in her address book, and dialed.

A woman answered her voice very young and business-like. “K.B. Realty,” she announced. “May I help you?”

“Keith, please,” Vicky said. “Keith Banning.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” the woman said after a slight pause, her tone softening. Vicky had noticed the change in tone before, whenever she’d asked to speak to the head of a firm by name. It was as if secretaries immediately thought,
This might be someone important, or personal; I’d better be civil.
“Who is calling, please?”

“Just tell him it’s his mistress,” Vicky said pleasantly and listened to the audible intake of breath at the other end of the line, followed by a slight choking sound.

“May I have your name?” the woman asked, sounding noticeably weaker.

“Why, does he have more than one?”

“Oh, I don’t…I’m sure…one moment, please.”

Vicky held on to the phone, trying to imagine what the woman looked like, how she’d relay the message after fumbling with the buttons on her desk. She heard a click. “Hi, Mom,” came the deep manly voice. “How are you? I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Vicky said with mock irritation. “I hoped you’d fly into a panic trying to figure out which of your…”

“Sorry to spoil your fun, Mom, but I don’t have even one mistress, much less a selection. What have you been up to? You haven’t been evicted already, have you?”

“I’ve
never
been evicted!” Vicky said indignantly, but then paused. “Well, not really, anyway. And it’s only been a little over two weeks since I last saw you.” She laughed softly. “They haven’t gotten to know me here, yet.”

“Lucky them. So, what have you been doing with yourself?” Keith asked.

“Well,” said Vicky, stretching the word as if trying to decide what she wanted to relate, if anything. Off-handedly, she tossed off: “I’m pregnant again, but that’s hardly news.”

Silent thoughts flitted along the miles of connecting wires. “That’s nice,” Keith said. “Another football team?”

Vicky giggled. “How did you know? Damn, you know me too well. Actually, I’m concentrating more on soccer these days; those cute little shorts just turn me on.”

Keith laughed with her. “Your gifts were truly beautiful, Mom,” he said. “But your grandchildren are getting spoiled. They think Christmas comes twice a year. Santa Claus’s in December and Nana Vicky’s in the spring.”

“They’re wonderful,” Vicky purred. “I adore them, and I so enjoyed seeing all of you. Sometimes, I think I’ll…”

“Why don’t you come and live with us, then?” Keith interjected quickly, taking the opportunity to get a word in that Vicky hadn’t intended to give, a rare lapse in her timing.

“You
know
why,” Vicky said, letting her weariness of the often-discussed topic tell in her voice. “Is he…everyone all right?”

“Fine, Mom,” Keith said. “Same as always. No better, but no worse.”

Vicky nodded to herself, then forced a lightening of her mood. “Everyone looked well. Anyway, the main reason I called was to give you my new number.” She read off the digits from the phone beside her and ended the conversation with her standard: “I love you. Take care of all. ‘Bye, darling,” and hung up.

She sank back into her chair, tiredness gnawing at the small of her back.
Move to
San Francisco
? She thought.
Have her entire family with her all the time?
How she would love to, if she could. Vicky felt the familiar haze of depression creep into her soul, the dullness that came whenever the subject came to the forefront of her thoughts. She shook her head and forced herself to sit upright. Opening her purse, she removed the
Hummel
figurine and stared at it, speaking at it with only her mind.
Sixteen long years, with only a week each Spring to link them all together, to make sense out of…everything. Maybe…next year…Maybe…But they had agreed…