Vicky Banning (7 page)

Long, cafeteria-style tables had been arranged in a squared-off U shape on the patio flagstones, the sun bright overhead, illuminating the arts and crafts as if they were cakes at a church bazaar. The “artisans” sat behind their creations, facing the center area where the judges were on view, talking among themselves.

Doris
rose from their midst and introduced each judge in turn, to the response of polite applause. The viewing then began.

Vicky had placed herself at the very end of the displays, wanting to be last, and wanting the sunlight to be directed onto her canvas from behind her so that the judges would be facing into it.
Blueboy
had to be evenly shaded, not glaring.
More art and craftiness were needed to set something like this up,
Vicky thought,
than there were in all those homey displays combined.
The judges had to get a
good
look at her creation.

She watched them make their way slowly along each table, properly examining each painting, sculpture, needlework—and
basket
with admiration. Whether genuine or feigned, Vicky couldn’t tell, but their comments were all complimentary.

Finally, they came to Vicky.

“This is our newest resident,”
Doris
said, by way of introduction. “Ms. Vicky Banning.”

Vicky smiled up at them and shook their hands. She noticed that quite a crowd had gathered around her work, curious, no doubt, since no one had been permitted to see what she was submitting to the show.

“And what have you to show us, little lady?” Mayor Lambert asked.

Vicky wanted to punch him in the nose.
Hey, watch that ‘little lady’ stuff, Buster,
she thought, but smiled sweetly at him. She had propped
Blueboy’
s
frame up from behind, with a pile of books taken from the shelves in the parlor, so it stood on its own. As she reached for the cloth covering the canvas, she also reached into her purse. Simultaneously, she flung off the covering with one hand and whipped out her camera with the other. The clicking of the camera, aimed at the judges, was the only sound to be heard in the sudden silence.

There posed
Blueboy
in all his aristocratic foppishness, his prissy smile, delicate lace color, and silken blue jacket.

But this
Blueboy
had his knickers down to his knees and what he was holding wasn’t a
hat.
He was apparently caught while preparing to pee!

Shrieks of surprise from the ladies changed to high-pitched squeals of laughter, while the men just stood and gaped, as if they’d never seen anything like it before. Vicky found it interesting that although women had been displayed in the buff for centuries in art—and lately in film and in magazines—for men to ogle or ignore as they pleased, men’s bodies had rarely been viewed since ancient times. If male “components” were shown in “mixed,” or “polite” society, men reacted as if they themselves were standing naked to the world, being appraised and compared—sized-up, if you will—by women who, they seemed to feel, weren’t supposed to know what a man looked like—cherubim were ok, of course. The ingredients of a bad dream in many men’s eyes.

The ruckus drew all of the contestants and observers to Vicky’s corner, crowding around to see what the raucous commotion was all about. Vicky appeared innocently unaware of the attention she was attracting, as the male judges tried to shoo the onlookers away. But everyone nearby, men and women, were laughing so hard they paid them no attention.

Each prize was to be awarded separately, varied-color ribbons presented to the winners by a judging couple.

“For the most imaginative,” the vicar later announced—trying unsuccessfully to keep his face serious—“the prize goes to Ms. Vicky Banning!”

More laughter and rousing applause reached Vicky as she stood beside the example of her creative expression. She watched as the vicar and his wife walked toward her, a shiny red ribbon with gold lettering held between the vicar’s hands. With each step they took, their smiles grew and grew, until they stopped across the table from her.

“There was really no contest when it came to this award,” the vicar said, his smile still widening. He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on Vicky and not
Blueboy
, which was still unveiled; his dark-browed, gray eyes stared straight ahead. He couldn’t see the glances his wife was darting at the canvas. “You have quite an imagination,” he added.

“A
big
one,” his wife added and broke into uncontrolled giggles until the vicar elbowed her gently. She forced them to subside, but continued casting quick looks at the “artwork.”

Vicky was pleased with the prize, but only as a bonus. They’d never be able to show her canvas at the county fair, of course, and certainly not in the social room of St. Sebastian’s church. But the look of shock, surprise, and amazement on the faces of Jamesville’s elite were sure to win for her at least Honorable Mention in the photo contest. Another addition to her letter.

It would be wonderful if she won first prize in the contest, though. She could buy dozens of copies of the newspaper in which the article appeared and send them off to…well, some in her family would certainly enjoy seeing her receive the award, especially after explaining how the photo came to be.

Hmmm.
She wondered how she’d look in a black leather jacket and crash helmet, zooming through the quiet streets of Jamesville on a Moped—a crazy celebrity artist.

“That exhibition you made of yourself this afternoon was disgraceful!” Sarah said with a sneer and an ugly rasp to her voice.

Vicky had been engrossed in the local newspaper after dinner, having declined the invitation to watch a re-run of
All In The Family
, and was sitting alone in the parlor. She was startled by the outburst, the room having been silent except for the intermittent popping from the fireplace. She looked up jerkily from the newspaper to see Sarah standing before her, face stern, body stiffened haughtily. “I beg your pardon, dear,” Vicky said. “Were you speaking to me?”

“You know very well I was,” Sarah said sharply. “We had a respectable home here, before you came. You and your pernicious influence have dragged our impeccable reputation into the gutter, down to your moral level. My husband was one of the founders of the Sanctuary, and I’m not going to stand by and let you ruin all the good work he did. I think you should pack your things and leave! Go back to where you came from!” She paused for just a moment, then with a wry smirk and lowering of her voice to a threatening level said, “Or we may just have to make you leave.”

Again the royal ‘we,’
thought Vicky, and continued to smile pleasantly up at her accuser.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Sarah continued. “At your age, too! Really! You need a psychiatrist. You’re a man hungry…whatever. That’s what you are. Man hungry!”

“Is that what you think?” Vicky asked, rising to face her directly. “Did you ever think that you may have me all wrong?” She gave a Bogart hitch to her rib cage and turned on a Jimmy Cagney, wise-guy smile. “What would you say if I told you that I was a lesbian?
Saaay
, has any woman ever told you that you have dynamite boobs?”

Sarah looked as if she were about to faint. Her face turned ashen, her eyes began to roll, and even her purplish curls seemed to blanch. A wail, rising in pitch and sound, seemed to come from deep inside her as she spun on her heels and galloped across the parlor into the foyer.

It was the first time Vicky had seen anyone in the Sanctuary use the stairs, up
or
down, and certainly not at a gallop. She watched Sarah take them two at a time, the hem of her flowery dress jouncing as her “sensible” shoes thumped up the steps.
I only asked, What would you say?
Vicky said to herself, then turned her attention back to her newspaper.

* * * *

The heading of the petition read:
Save The Sanctuary From SIN!!! Curious
, Vicky thought,
it wasn’t signed
Sister Sarah—Savior of Souls.
The typed sheet of unsigned paper had been slipped under her door the following day, making Vicky wonder who would have wanted her to see it first. If
Doris
knew about the petition, she would have shown it to her in person, and probably
Burton
would have as well.

Well, Vicky would have to thank whoever it was later. In the meantime, though, she was going to have to put a stop to Sarah’s nonsense. She needed a plan, something that would bring Sarah down from her righteous perch, if at all possible without demeaning her further in the eyes of the other residents. Sarah had the right to feel the way she did, which was quite different from Vicky’s make-up. If anything, Vicky celebrated the differences in people, didn’t punish them for it, unless it was hurtful to someone else.

She waited until
Doris
drove off with the vanload of shoppers before she began to search for—what? She wasn’t quite sure, but there had to be something that would give her an edge over Sarah. The public rooms, of course, would be of no use to her, and Sarah’s room on the opposite side of the house was private. Vicky strolled around the second floor balcony, noting that most of the residents left their doors open to the fresh air. There was no thought of anyone invading another’s domain. Sarah’s, too, stood open, but Vicky dismissed the fleeting thought of stepping inside. Privacy was one of the many things she respected, and she wouldn’t stoop to snooping for her own gain.

She stood with her back to the railing at the edge of the outdoor balcony, looking toward Sarah’s room. It was like all the others: glass-paned doors—Sarah’s curtained with yellow, silk drapes—a window to the right of the doors, covered with matching material and, to the left, a smaller octagonal window set higher off the floor, and uncovered to let the light into the bathroom. The open doors showed the foot of the bed and, straight across the room, the door to the indoor hallway.

Vicky stared straight ahead, not really seeing the room at all, thinking.
Burton
could possibly help her “get” something on Sarah, but Vicky didn’t want to involve anyone else in her scheme—whatever it was going to be. She thought about Sarah, of her reaction to
Blueboy
, and the “dynamite boobs.” That was it! Vicky didn’t like the plan very well—it was sneaky, which she abhorred—it was underhanded—which she detested—but it would work—which was marvelous! There was shopping to be done, a schedule to be laid out, so she had to start immediately.

* * * *

She’d seen the sporting goods store on her last “shopping spree” into Jamesville, and had the taxi driver drop her off at its entrance. The windows were crammed full with sporting equipment, including the one thing she was looking for—roller skates, the new kind with rubber-like wheels that made barely a sound, even on sidewalks. Silence was essential, as was speed.

“May I help you, Madam?” she salesman asked. He was a short, muscular guy in his thirties, with thick shoulders and bushy eyebrows that straggled in every which direction.

“Yes,” Vicky replied. “I’d like to see some roller skates.”

“Certainly, ma’am. For a child or an adult?”

“For me,” Vicky said with a grin.

Only for a moment did the man look surprised, but he smiled pleasantly. “Roller skating has really become popular,” he said. “Everyone seems to be getting into it, for the exercise and the rush.”

“I get plenty of exercise,” Vicky said with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders. “I’m in it for the money.”

The man had started to lead the way farther into the store, but stopped and turned back to her. “Money?”

“That’s right,” Vicky said. “Money. I’ve just been hired to coach the Pennsylvania Flowers. You’ve heard of them, of course?”

His mouth opened as if to speak, and then closed. But he nodded, uncertainly. “Oh, sure. Of course,” he muttered, eyeing her curiously. “What are you going to coach them in?”

Vicky looked incredulous. “Why power checking, of course. What else would I coach the new state roller derby team in, tap dancing? Don’t you read
Wheelies
? In your business, you certainly should.”

The man became flustered, his eyebrows twitched as he looked away from her. “I must have missed the past few issues.”

“Oh, then you probably don’t recognize me,” Vicky said. “My picture was on last month’s cover. I was the Roller Derby Queen in my younger days. Now, I get paid to outfit and coach the new teams, from helmets to wheel-locks, so I’m here to check out your inventory. You can handle
large
,
expensive
orders, can’t you?”

“
Yes,
yes, of
cour
…”

“Good,” Vicky interrupted. “Then show me your finest pair of skates, size five. A pair that I can slip on and off quickly.”

“I have some that should be perfect for you,” the man said with growing enthusiasm. “It’s a boot skate, but with Velcro closings, like ski boots rather than laces. Good support without the bother.”

“And they must have those new wheels, rubber, or whatever they are,” Vicky said. “We’re starting a new trend, silent but deadly. The fans make enough noise to deafen a statue as it is.”

The man thought for a moment, then said, “No problem. Please, take a seat.” He motioned her to a chair facing a wall of boxed sneakers. “I’ll get the skates.”

Vicky slipped off her shoes as she waited for the man to return from the back room. She wondered if she’d even be able to stand up in skates. It had been years since she’d worn them, back in the fifties. She and Gerald had lived in
New York
back then and had taken a subway out to
Queens
, to a roller rink. They’d danced and swayed to organ music, lost in their own merry-go-round world.

“Here you are, ma’am,” the man said, on returning with a large, white box. He removed the lid. “White okay?”

“White’s fine,” Vicky said, “but for heaven’s sake, take off those awful red pom-poms. They’d make me look like Grandma Moses, the world’s oldest cheerleader.”

The man chuckled and did as he was told, then knelt to slip the skates onto Vicky’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked when they were in place.

“Very snug,” Vicky answered appreciatively.
Now, if I can stand up without breaking my fool neck
, she thought,
they’ll be just fine.

The man helped her to her feet, and she stood, bracing herself on the man’s thick shoulder. Taking a step, she felt the heaviness pull at her feet. She tried another.
Okay, so far
, she thought, as she continued to walk on the smooth carpeting. She remembered the days when she could skate with ease in Gerald’s arms, and began to glide. It was coming back to her.

“Don’t move onto the tiles,” the man called. “They’re very slick, you might fall.”

“Right,” Vicky agreed. “Give me your arm; I want to see how they work outdoors.”

The man’s eyebrows scrunched toward the center, like two nests joining. “I can’t let you take the skates outside,” he said. “The wheels…”

“Of course you can,” Vicky insisted. “I’m going to buy them. You have my purse for collateral. Now, give me a hand.”

The man looked decidedly unhappy, but held out his arm to help Vicky step awkwardly across the tiled floor, and out the door.

“Thank you,” Vicky said. “You can let go now. I just want to test these out for a minute, to the corner and back. You can watch me all the way if you want, or walk along beside me.”

When he let go of her arm, she skated slowly along the sidewalk, pressing her fingers against the storefront windows for support, until she felt her confidence grow. Gradually, she took longer and longer strides and began to sail past startled pedestrians and shops with graceful poise, receiving looks of surprise and delight as she passed.

“Way to go, Grandma,” someone called.

Vicky responded with a victory-raised fist, and kept on going.

She was picking up speed as she arrived at the theater’s ticket booth, and glanced into the open area around it, where movie posters were displayed. She drew up short, the maneuver coming back to her without a thought.
Must be like riding a bike,
she thought.
Some things you never forget.
A few of the women from the Sanctuary were perusing the posters, and Vicky avoided them. She didn’t want to be seen in such a vulnerable situation. Turning away quickly, the wheels as silent as promised, she raced back toward the salesman waiting for her outside his store. Taller than him now, Vicky felt even taller than she stood.

“I’ll take them,” she said, flushing with excitement and exercise. “Let’s get inside.” The man started to assist her into the store, but realized she was doing quite well on her own. “How much do you want for them?” Vicky asked.

“They’re eighty-nine ninety-five,” the man said, settling Vicky into a chair.

Vicky laughed lightly, a somewhat surprised look on her face. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “That’s the price on the box. I meant how much are they for
me
?”

The man looked up at her from one of her boots. “What do you mean?” he asked. “The price on the box
is
the price.”

Vicky looked bewildered. “Do you mean to tell me that when I’m giving you an order for an entire team, that you’re not going to give me a discount?”

“Oh, yes indeed, ma’am,” the man said. “When you give me the order,
and
a fifty percent deposit…”

“Anyway,” Vicky said quickly, “these skates have been used.”

The man’s face twisted in confusion and a decided shading of irritation, as he stood with the skate in his hand. “
You
are the only one who used them. They haven’t been worn by anyone else.”

“Nevertheless,” Vicky said adamantly, “used is used, and I’m certainly not going to pay full price for second-hand merchandise. If I’m not going to get a discount for giving you a
huge
order, and you’re trying to sell me used goods at full price, then I don’t think you’re a very good businessman. In fact, I don’t think I want to do business with you at all.”